Sally Called!
by I love music
Summary: COMPLETE STORY Eight-year-old Sally and her imaginary friend Milko arrive in Summer Bay!
1. Chapter 1

**chapter 1**

"We've got Milko. Don't tell nobody and 'specially don't tell the cops or Milko gets it..." The little boy with the innocent sparkling blue eyes and baby face casually removed one hand from his pocket to make a slicing gesture across his throat. "We'll be in touch."

Sally Keating froze. The kid was much younger than herself. Although he was wearing school uniform, he didn't look old enough to be in school at all but he acted like he owned not only Summer Bay Primary but the whole of Summer Bay as well. After coolly delivering the ultimatum, he thrust his hands back into his pockets and strolled back through the strictly-forbidden-access bushes (protecting, as they did, Reception class's newly-planted flower beds) from whence he came.

Sally watched the bushes move and a taller head above the bushes bobbing in obvious conversation. She didn't need to ask who the kidnappers were. She'd only been in Summer Bay a handful of days but already she'd heard the other kids talking about the Phillips brothers. How, if you weren't quick enough, they'd do heaps of bad stuff to you, call you names, rob you, bash you even, and it was best to keep away from them. But she hadn't been quick enough and now Milko had been kidnapped.

They'd never been separated before. It was like...like someone had ripped out her heart. Tears blurred her vision. If she'd never come to Summer Bay, Milko would still be with her and everything would be alright again. She wished she could go back two days and tell Mrs Ross she'd changed her mind. It _just_ might work if she closed her eyes real tight and wished hard enough.

Little Sally Keating squeezed her eyes tight shut and wished with all her might that she'd never called on Summer Bay.  
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"I'm not staying for a _long_ time. But I just thought I'd call."

Pippa Ross smiled down at the polite, solemn child (the total opposite of the confident, outgoing Lynn who had insisted on her much younger friend being fostered with her) who'd carefully taken the (standard Home issue) pink-striped pyjamas out of her overnight bag to fold extremely neatly and place carefully on the pillow and who now turned to her hostess with an air of quiet self-sufficiency.

"I see. And how long do you think you'll be calling for, Sally?"

Pippa tenderly brushed back a stray tendril of dark hair that was threatening to engulf Sally's right eye. Poor kid. Small wonder she was so reserved.

When she was only three Sally's parents had drowned in a boating accident that she'd witnessed and she'd gone to live with her grandmother. But, ironically, Sally herself had become the carer when the old lady later developed Alzheiemers. Thankfully, one of her teachers became aware of the situation and alerted Welfare. But it hadn't helped matters that, only days before she was taken into care, a kindly elderly neighbour and the neighbour's two cats that Sally had lavished attention upon had perished in a house fire. By the time she reached eight...

_...Sally has come to the conclusion that those she loves will inevitably leave her and so the wisest course of action is never to get close to anyone in the first place. To compensate, she has created for herself an imaginary friend "Milko", who can NEVER be taken away from her and therefore always gives Sally the love, security and stability she so desperately craves..._

A lump had come to Pippa's throat when she read the reports. She and her husband Tom had previously only ever fostered teenagers and had promised each other that they would tread very, very slowly with this little girl who had known so much tragedy at so young an age. It would be a learning curve for all three of them and they'd take it one step at a time.

"I'm not quite sure," Sally replied now, in answer to Pippa's question. "What do you think, Milko?"

She looked towards a blank spot on the wall and seemed to listen intently, nodding two or three times, while Pippa waited patiently.

"Milko says he thinks you're very nice, thank you for having us and we might call for a few days. If you don't mind." She added, a tremor of anxiety slipping into the previously composed little voice.

"Well, tell Milko thank you very much, I think he's very nice too and I'll be very glad to have you both call for as long as you like."

Pippa once more tenderly brushed back the rogue tendril of hair that had worked itself loose with the nodding. No doubt Sally would grow out of Milko in time. But the little girl still needed her imaginary friend as yet. As long as Sally had Milko to help her cope, everything would be fine.  
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"We're not _really_ gonna kill him, are we, Scotty?" Kane Phillips asked, having successfully delivered, word for word (although the slicing throat gesture had been Kane's own artistic flourish) the message his older brother Scotty had tasked him with.

Nine-year-old Scott blinked. "What the do you think, drongo?"

Kane gazed at the patch of grass where Scott claimed to be holding Milko prisoner and shuffled in thought, managing to trample a few more of the flowers his class had been busy nurturing that very morning.

"D'ya think we oughta get him something to eat then?"

"No, I don't!" Scotty raised his eyes Heavenwards. _Jeeeez-us! _The whole idea of "kidnapping" Milko had been to tease the new kid, not to provide four-course meals!

"But we can't just starve the guy..."

Scott Phillips wondered, not for the first time, why he was the only one in his family to have been blessed with a brain. Dad was sometimes so off his face with the grog that he thought he saw giant mice and miniature kangaroos. Mum was so far gone into Fruitcake Land that some days she could hold whole conversations with a wall. Now his four-and-a-half-year-old brother, recently started at Summer Bay Primary and, until this moment, having shown promising signs of following in Scotty's footsteps, was enquiring about luncheon arrangements for the weirdo newbie's imaginary friend!

"Give him a menu if ya wanna!" He said sarcastically, catching Kane's ankle with a well-aimed kick. "I gotta go."

"But we can't just leave him tied up there! What if someone sees him?"

He sounded so convincing that Scotty looked to where he indicated before he pulled himself together. Kane had him going as loopy as he was.

"Jerk!" He replied with another kick, leaving Kane with a throbbing ankle and just as baffled as he'd been before.  
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Sally opened her eyes and sucked in a shuddering, tearful breath. The wish hadn't worked. She was still in the schoolyard and still without Milko. And if she dared tell anyone he'd been kidnapped the Phillips brothers would kill him and then she'd _never _get him back! But if she _never _got Milko back, everything would be like it used to be before and, one by one, all the people who loved her would leave her and...

_No, oh no! _It was happening again! Last time it had happened, when one of the bigger kids at the Home had been picking on her, Lynn had been there to yell at him and put her arm round Sally until it stopped. But Lynn wasn't here to stop it.

Sally pressed her hands against her ears, trying to block out the deafening crash of the waves, feeling the earth swaying beneath her feet, screaming in terror as the ground began to turn into the terrible sea...


	2. Chapter 2

**chapter 2**

There were five people in the boat, including Sally's parents, but only one was to survive the accident. A second boat, caught in the high wave's backlash, was overturned too, but all of its occupants, except for a little black terrier, that had been yapping excitedly on deck only moments before, were rescued. The freak wave had taken everyone by surprise.

It was when Sally first realised that the terrible sea could take away anyone it wanted to. Nothing and nobody could stop it. It was how it was. Just how it was.

A hot sun tempered by cooling breezes blew refreshingly on three-year-old Sally Keating's face. Sunlight glistened on a large cockroach scurrying through the wet, grainy sand. Occasionally someone passed them by on the slippery gravel to take the short cut that led out to the supermercardo at the top of the hill.

They sat, she and Isabelle on the low wall that overlooked the shingle beach, where the views were the very best for watching the sailing boats emerge cautiously from round the cliffs before they gained in confidence and, with noisy, flapping white sails, glided out to the open turquoise waters. Isabelle was teaching Sally Spanish words and she placed her hand gently on the little girl's head and said _nina_ and Sally said it back, kicking her heels contentedly against the wall to admire her new espadrilles because they looked like Isabelle's.

Isabelle worked as a waitress at their holiday hotel and they had taken a great shine to each other although Sally couldn't always understand Isabel's accent and Isabel didn't always know how to say something in English. Isabel said she hoped she and Rico, her fiancé, had four Sallys one day and Sally said it might _really_ be best if they had four different names or everybody would get mixed up. That made Isabel and her parents laugh though Sally didn't know why.

The day of the tragedy Mr and Mrs Keating, feeling a sailing boat wasn't a safe place for a small child, planned to leave Sally in the hotel kindergarten for a few hours, but then Isabel was asked to swap shifts and, finding herself with an unexpected free afternoon, suggested, instead of them leaving Sally behind, she could take her to watch. And that was how Sally and Isabel came to be sitting on the low wall, eating ice creams that melted in the hot sun, swapping Spanish and English words, and taking it in turns to peer through the heavy binoculars, looking out for Sally's Mum and Dad.

And at last, through the powerful binoculars that magically turned the tiny figures dotting the boats into people, they saw them, and they jumped up excitedly, waving and shouting. But then something happened that was to change the lazy, calm afternoon and Sally's life forever. It came without warning. Suddenly there was a peculiar rumbling sound, as though an angry lion was waking from a long sleep, and a wave, high as a tree, rose and crashed down again, obliterating the sailing boat, the water sweeping so far inland that Sally's ankles were immersed in its icy coldness. It was gone as abruptly as it came. The pretty little Menorcan town was spared, for it came no further.

But all that Sally could see was water flooding towards her and all that Sally could hear was the thunder of the sea and her own terrified screaming.

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Jeez, things like this were always happening! Scotty would leave Kane to keep watch while he bashed someone or nicked stuff, and then, half the time, forget Kane was there. Or maybe, as Kane was beginning to suspect, he remembered Kane was there but thought it would more fun to leave him hanging around.

The caravan shop, closed for the caravan park's annual essential maintenance work, had been the lucky recipient of _one hours' worth _of painstakingly chalked pictures on its side wall and door (and all that effort obviously unappreciated as everything had been scrubbed out by the time the caravan park re-opened for the season) while Kane waited for Scott and Scott, having completed the trashing of empty shelves and fixtures and fittings to his satisfaction, walked out through the front door and forgot to tell him. But to leave him guarding Milko on his own, this was the biggest yet!

Kane had no intention of shirking his responsibility and every intention of making his older brother proud. His ankle still throbbing from Scotty's kicks, he hobbled out of the bushes and stared for a while in mild curiosity at the weirdo who was screaming with both hands pressed over her ears. Finally he had to ask.

"If ya screaming bothers ya that much, why don't ya stop?"

Sally opened her eyes. She hadn't even realised she'd closed them again but she must have done. She checked out the ground. The terrible sea had gone. Closing your eyes sometimes shut out the bad stuff, like washing your hands six times every morning meant no one you knew would get crook and have to be taken to hospital and dodging the cracks in the pavement stopped the earth from opening up and plunging everything and everyone into the water. Milko understood all these things and sometimes, with Milko, Sally felt safe enough not to have to do them. But now Milko was being held prisoner by this kid who owned Summer Bay and she was alone.

Two large tears spilled down the little girl's cheeks, twanging at Kane's heart strings. He hated it when people were sooky. Dad and Scott said sooks deserved everything they got, which was why Dad had to bash Mum sometimes. But sookiness made Kane uneasy. He knew he should have laughed or spat in her face or swore at her but he couldn't bring himself to. Truth was, Kane was something of a sook himself though he knew that was wrong and he was working hard not to be.

"For ----'s sake, we're not gonna kill the guy," he said, hoping they weren't. "Not if ya's both do what ya's are told anyway. I just wanna know, what does Milko like to eat?"

Sally started. She'd never been asked the question before. She'd never even thought about it.

"Berries - I think."

"Jeez, he's ya best mate, isn't he? D'ya's never talk to each other? Don't ya _know?"_

"Steak." Sally said the first thing that came into her head.

"Bloody hell, he's got expensive tastes! Where the ---- d'ya expect me to get steak from?"

"And chips," Sally amended quickly. Chips were cheap. You could get them anywhere. She didn't want Milko to go without food.

"Gotcha." Kane nodded, looking up as the bell for afternoon school rang and grinning as he saw his brother. Scotty was going to be stoked with the way he was handling the kidnap. "Milko likes steak, chips and berries so, no probs, I'll get that sorted for his tea tonight."

Scott slowed down and absently jingled the coins weighing down his pockets, deep in thought. He and a couple of mates had been going round collecting protection money (easy deal: a dollar a week and you didn't get bashed; two dollars up front and you got three weeks' protection) but, suddenly realising he was hungry, he'd come back to see if his younger brother had any of the cheese-and-pickle sandwiches left from the half dozen they'd nicked that morning from the Summer Bay Diner.

He'd been about to swear impatiently at Kane's warped idea of how you taunted dorks who thought they had invisible friends, but then he saw the look on the dag's face. Jeez, if they played their cards right, this could pay. And pay well.

"Good work," he said instead. "I just hope ya didn't give this Milko drongo any of our own sangers, I'm starving."

"No worries!" Kane proudly produced a very squashed sandwich from each pocket, puzzled when Scotty pulled a face and swiped him across the head before tucking in. There wasn't _that_ much fluff on them and only one had had _all_ its cellophane wrapping come off.

Sally gulped, realising she was just going to _have_ to be brave for Milko's sake. Like Sally, Milko hated being with strangers. He'd be terrified by now.

"Excuse me," she said very politely and in a very small voice. "But...but Milko's very shy and...and probably needs me to talk to him so he won't be scared." She took a deep breath. "Please can I have him back? For just a...just a little bit?"

"Nu-uh. He's staying with me till we decide what we're gonna do next," Kane said, totally getting the hang of this terrorizing the other kids lark. At this rate he'd ace school. He turned to Scott. "Don't'cha worry, I'll make sure he stays well outta sight of stickybeak teachers."

"Right," Scott said, swallowing his lunch, and feeling a tad too confused to comment further. Listening to all this was beginning to make him feel like he'd been brain zapped.

"Guess we better split," Kane added, noticing his class and teacher were already making their way towards their beloved flower garden.

"Guess," Scotty agreed. "Catch ya after school. And you..." he glared at Sally threateningly. "You'll keep ya mouth zipped if ya know what's good for ya."

"I will," Sally whispered.

She could only watch, heartbroken and trembling, as, whistling cockily, Kane Phillips tagged on after his classmates. Milko was the very last of the line.


	3. Chapter 3

**chapter 3**

"Oh, my goodness, Toby must have been chasing the birds!" Miss Murray exclaimed in dismay as she dropped the camera back down to her side again.

Before lunch Kathy Murray had reminded her class about her plans to take a class photo to grace Reception's wall. Now she looked in shock at the trampled flowers and came to what appeared to be the logical conclusion. The scruffy ginger cat with only one ear and, to judge by his old battle scars, a penchant for fighting until great age must have forced him into retirement, had appeared from nowhere one day and decided to adopt the school and so, in turn, the school had given him a name (Toby, after the Toby jug he'd smashed while jumping in through an open window) and adopted him as their mascot. As no one ever came forward to claim him, he lived, happily enough, with the janitor who had his own house in the grounds and usually kept Toby under control.

The flower garden had been Reception's pride and joy. Kathy Murray had initiated it this term to help settle in some of the more timid kids and it had worked like a charm, giving them a common bond and a sense of importance. But now the children were devastated. Sophie and Georgia gripped each other's hands, with tears raining down their faces. Annie stared in shock with her mouth wide open. Thomas, Jack and Luke were arguing over whether the flower garden could be rescued or should be dug up and started all over again. Sarah kept asking why it happened. Despite her reassurances, Kathy felt like asking Sarah the same question.

The teacher looked round at her class, now a sea of confused and saddened little faces, who had come here so proudly to have their photo . Nearly every one of them was heartbroken to find their handiwork ruined. The exception of course was Kane Phillips, who simply surveyed the damage with indifference.

But Kathy Murray wasn't too surprised. She had also taught Kane's older brother Scott and knew from experience nothing much moved the Phillips boys. It was easy to see where they got their coldness from. Kathy had met their father Richie and taken an instant dislike to him and his sneer. Richie (as he liked to call himself when he was trying to appear respectable, Gus as he was known to certain associates; it was an open secret that he was a small time crook) would turn up at Summer Bay Primary occasionally in invitation to sort out some misdemeanour or other committed by one or both of his sons. This inevitably meant Mr Phillips senior found some excuse to put the blame squarely on the school while proclaiming the sweet innocence of his angelic offspring.

Kane at this moment not only looked like a miniature replica of his father, he even adopted his mannerisms, frowning as he leaned casually on one leg with arms folded across his chest, then rubbing his right ear lobe, obviously thinking how the blame could be shifted. Kathy even half expected him to light up a cigarette.

Kane studied the ruined flower garden, deep in thought. He hadn't realised just how much he and Scotty had walked up and down during the kidnap.

He shook his head in sympathy. No wonder old Murraymints was p-----d off. In his head, Kane had never been four and a half years old. He spoke to his teacher as an equal.

"It coulda been Milko," he said helpfully, not without a twinge of guilt for landing the guy in it. But, hell, it wasn't fair that Toby should get all the blame either.

"Milko?" Kathy looked at her most troublesome student blankly.

"Yeh. He's kinda invisible but he's around, ya know? He loves steak, chips and berries so he coulda been lookin' for berries or somethin' and run off when he heard us 'cos he's heaps shy and don't like talkin' to people much."

"But he talks to you?"

"Nah, he..." Kane began, and then remembered. He was meant to be hiding Milko from stickybeak teachers, not making sure everyone was on first name terms. Jeez, next thing you knew he'd be setting Miss Murray and Milko up on a blind date! "I mean, _yeh._ All the time. But don't'cha worry, Milko won't chase _no one_," he added reassuringly, in case Miss Murray really did think a blind date was in the offing and got her hopes up.

To his amazement, Miss Murray smiled and patted his shoulder.

"I understand, Kane. He doesn't _mean_ to do things, does he?" she said in the kind of voice she normally only used if a kid had hurt themselves or was crying for Mummy. "He's really very, very good."

What the hell did she mean, had she seen Milko or something? Maybe teaching all these kids (Kane didn't class himself as one; you grew up fast in the Phillips' humble abode) was getting to old Murraymints and she was finally going doolally.

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_And one and two and three and four, make it once more, and one and two and three and four, make it once more..._

"Sally...?"

Pippa paused in the act of hanging the washing on the clothes line and watched in concern as her youngest foster daughter came from round the corner of the house, her back against the brick, shuffling her way crab like around its walls.

Sally's eyes were closed. She heard the voice and she knew it was Pippa but she had to touch _every_ part of the house. If she didn't, someone would die before morning and it would be all Sally's fault. She knew it was all her fault that Mum and Dad died on the boat. Milko said it wasn't. Oh, but Sally knew the truth now Milko had gone.

The day Sally first saw Milko (she somehow just _knew_ his name was Milko) was exactly two days after the sailing boat tragedy. He didn't say very much but then he never did in the beginning.

Milko looked a lot like the giant cartoon bottle-of-milk boy on the neon sign advertisement above the airport Diner. The bottle-of-milk boy wore a bottle top for a hat and every time the neon lights changed colour a strawberry milkshake appeared beside him which made him laugh in delight and the bottle-top-hat pop off.

Milko wore a hat too, but it was a kid's baseball cap like Mums put on their kids on hot days to keep the sun off. Later, when Milko and Sally had come to know each other quite well, he often liked to change the colour of his hat but the first time Sally saw him it was red like the bottle-of-milk boy's bottle-top-hat.

Sally had been sitting in the airport diner with Isabel, Rico and Rosa, and half drifting into a dream while fighting hard to stay awake in case Isabel went away like Mum and Dad had gone away. And it was then that she suddenly saw him.

"G'day," Milko said, when he saw she'd noticed him. He was very tall and straight and pale, and he wore a flat red hat though his T-shirt and shorts and trainers were white.

Just then Isabel asked if she was sleepy, stroking Sally's forehead as she spoke, and somewhere in that fraction of a second, between Sally's eyes closing and flying open again, Milko had gone.

The next time Sally saw Milko was just before she and Rosa, the lady who was to travel back with her to Australia, where Sally's grandmother had arranged to meet them at the airport, went through to the departure lounge, where they had to say their goodbyes to Isabel and Rico. Isabel stooped down to Sally and held her very tight, sniffing back tears and talking so fast in Spanish that Sally didn't understand any of it. Isabel's fiancé Rico rubbed his red eyes with the heels of his hands, saying he was tired and trying to pretend he wasn't crying, though Sally knew better. Sally didn't want to leave Isabel either and she was clinging to her, hoping the _policia_ would come and tell Rosa, nice though she was, she really couldn't go with Sally; Isabel and Rico must go instead, and then Gran might say they could all live together in Gran's house forever.

One o'clock in the morning was the strangest time in the world. It was the time when everybody should have been fast asleep but instead everybody was hurrying about with bags and suitcases and trolleys and the lights were bright and the noise was loud. If Sally hadn't overheard a lady carrying a little boy snap at her husband as they walked past _well, no wonder the poor kid's grouchy, it's bloody one o'clock in the morning _she'd have thought it was the middle of the afternoon. And, everything being so strange, Rico's watch with the square blue face was talking away to itself on his wrist while Rico was rubbing his eyes.

"Tick-tock-Sal-ly-tick-tock-Sal-ly-tick-tock..." it was saying loudly.

That was when Milko suddenly appeared again and decided to show off with some Spanish. "Buen-os di-as" he said, in the same tick-tock voice as the watch. "Buen-os di-as-buen-os-di-as..."

Despite the tears that kept drying out on her face only to keep beginning afresh, Sally was finding it more and more difficult to stay awake. Her whole body was tired. Her legs had gone to sleep a long time ago and now her head felt fuzzy and her arms were so weak she just couldn't hold on to Isabel anymore...

"We will be home soon, leetle one," Rosa said in a whisper, closing the book she'd been reading.

Isabel had gone! Isabel had left her! Sally had finally fallen asleep and Isabel and Rico had gone while she slept! It was just Sally and Rosa now. Just Sally and Rosa, sitting on the quiet plane where cold, harsh lights reflected in round dark windows and all was eerily silent, save for the low droning noise of the engines and the gentle clacking of someone's headphones and the rustling sound of newspaper pages.

"I theenk you might be thirsty?" Rosa asked.

Sally nodded, her bottom lip trembling because it wasn't fair, she wanted Isabel to be there with her instead of Rosa, and Rosa fished in her bag for a carton of blackcurrant fruit juice as she put her book down on...

Milko's lap. But Milko, who was sitting on the empty seat next to them, didn't mind. He simply smiled as if to say everything would be alright.

After that, Sally didn't see Milko for a long, long time. Not until after Gran started doing funny things, like putting her shoes on over her slippers and waking Sally up for school five minutes after Sally had gone to bed.

But one special day, when Gran set a place at the table for Grandad, who'd died years before Sally was born, and Sally was wishing she knew what to do and had someone to tell about it, Milko came and sat in Grandad's chair and never went away again.

When Sally woke in the morning, Milko would be there. Sometimes he'd been to the beach and would be carrying a surfboard or sometimes he'd helped himself to brekkie and would be eating a bowl of cereal or munching on toast. When Sally went to sleep at night Milko would settle down on the kid's armchair (before she started getting mixed up about things, Gran had bought it for Sally's birthday) and yawn and stretch and complain loudly that Sally was keeping him awake. Other times he wouldn't be tired at all and would jump on and off the furniture till Sally told him to stop.

They were very best friends and Milko always knew what to do when Gran was crook. When Gran left the water running after she'd had a bath, Milko said, _"Well, Sally, you'll have to turn the tap off."_ When Gran kept calling her Karen, Sally was frightened until Milko said, _"Gran thinks you're your Mum when she was a little girl. You'll have to be patient and wait until she remembers who you are again."_

It was Milko who told Sally that it wasn't her fault her Mum and Dad died. Milko who said she didn't _have_ to wash her hands six times every morning. Milko made Sally feel better about everything.

But now Sally had had time to think things over she realised Milko hadn't even _tried_ to escape! Yet if Kane Phillips had done the tying up he would have been able to untie himself quite easily because (being very neat and tidy herself, Sally always noticed these things) although he owned the school, the little boy couldn't even do up his own shoelaces - one lace had been trailing and the other had been tied in several confused knots. No, there could only be one explanation. Milko had decided to be mates with the Phillips boys and team up with them to bully the other kids!

Sally didn't have Milko anymore. She had to protect herself. Every way she knew how.

_And one and two and three and four, make it once more, and one and two and three and four, make it once more..._

She shuffled to the end of the wall at the same time as Pippa reached her.

"Your hands are grazed," Pippa said, taking Sally's small, trembling hands in her own, and drawing a sharp breath as she saw the blood. "Sally, sweetheart, we're friends, aren't we? You can trust me. Please tell me what's wrong."

Sally gazed back at Pippa and blinked back tears. Even if he _had_ turned traitor, she couldn't dob Milko in. The Phillips brothers had said they'd kill him if she did and she and Milko, they used to be...used to be...(Sally's heart surely snapped in two) such good friends.

It wasn't fair of her to worry Pippa and Tom like this. She would go back to the Home, tonight, and no one in Summer Bay need ever think of her again. It would be best for everyone if she left. Steven, her foster brother, had said as much only last night. She was a wuss, a bub, a stupid sook who did nothing but cry, Steven had said, and nobody needed her here. Well, Steven was right. Milko had Kane and Scott now. Lynn had Carly and Bobby to go down to the beach with and talk about boys. And Frank and Steven, her two foster brothers, even though they were always fighting, well, boys did, and when they weren't fighting they were great mates, talking about footie and fast cars and other boring boy stuff.

Because she had been brought up by her grandmother from so young an age, Sally often spoke in the same old-fashioned way. Her polite little voice reminded Pippa of a bygone age and sweet-faced, silver-haired ladies who, every afternoon at four, sat by the fire to eat buttered scones with jam and cream and sip tea from china cups.

"Thank you for having me stay, Pippa" she said in a breathless sob. "It's been most enjoyable. But I'm afraid I really can't call for any longer."


	4. Chapter 4

**chapter 4**

"Well, I never would have had Kane Phillips down as the sensitive type," Janice Drummond commented drily, memories of her last encounter with the little boy, when he had a fist pressed against the chin of another kid while Scott Phillips was advising him to "bash him to ------- pulp" and Kane looked happy to oblige, fresh in her mind.

Kathy Murray dunked a Tim Tam into her tea (the choccie would melt, but she never could get out of the habit of dunking biccies) and smiled back at her colleague.

"Me neither. But Kane more or less owned up to playing chase yesterday arvo and accidentally trampling the flower garden. Then he blamed his imaginary friend Milko for the damage and - get this! - he claimed Milko was too shy to front up and admit it. I always did wonder why Kane had so very little to do with the other kids in the class." (Kathy was blissfully unaware that the real reason was that Kane regarded the other kids in his class as silly bubs that he and old Murraymints tolerated with a remarkable, saint-like patience.)

Janice shook her head and sighed. She was almost twice Kathy's age and a great deal more cynical. Phillips. Sensitive. Shy. Somehow the words didn't fit.

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"I'm tellin' ya!"

"Jeez!" Kane said.

"So she thinks ya this cute little kid..."

"Dead set?"

"Dead set."

"Jeez!" Kane said again, highly impressed with his ability to be a cute little kid, grinning at his momentarily fire-framed reflection in the dirt-smeared windows (the old locker rooms, reputed to be haunted, were no longer cleaned, being disused and scheduled for demolition) as Scotty lit up a cigarette.

"So you gotta milk it..." Scott puffed, spluttered and coughed, and cuffed him across the ear to regain his attention. He didn't spent his valuable time listening outside staff rooms for nothing.

"No worries!" Kane said confidently. "How?"

"How'd'ya ------- think, drongo? First, ya gotta act like this imaginary mate Milko's with ya all the time..."

"Oh, no probs, Scotty. I swear I've never let the guy outta my sight."

Scotty blinked. It was difficult at times. Really difficult. No wonder he smoked.

"Yeh. Well. So ya act like he's there and ya gotta pretend to sob ya cute little heart out if anyone upsets ya...like 'cos the newbie dork keeps pickin' on ya."

It was Kane's turn to blink. Back a sudden sting of tears. At the injustice of being a victim and not even knowing he was. "She's been pickin' on me?"

"Nooo, ya ------- jerk, ya just make like she has!" Scott stomped down hard on Kane's foot, marvelling at the patience he had with his kid brother. _"Sshhh!" _He added suddenly, clamping a hand over Kane's mouth as Kane gave a (muffled) yell of pain, quickly stubbing out his cigarette and pushing it out of the tiny hole in the dirt-smeared window, where it disappeared forever into the long grass, then popping a mint into his own mouth, all in one swift, graceful movement. Scotty was pretty much expert at this kind of thing.

He had his story all ready now that they were about to be sprung by a stickybeak teacher or the janitor or workies. His kid bro had been curious about the old locker rooms and Scott, being the responsible big brother he was, had gone there to get him out. He opened his mouth and drew breath to speak as the shuffling stopped and the door slowly opened. And then he grinned broadly.

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Steven felt quite proud of himself. Well, no, proud wasn't quite the right word. Smug maybe. But not proud. Because a tiny fluttering of guilt briefly surfaced and quickly dissipated. The remnants of another life, when he was a nice guy. Oh, but _he_ died a long time ago, burnt to death along with his parents. Steven was a different person now. He could look Pippa in the face and lie through his teeth and even offer sympathy. Anything to hide the fear inside. Because the memory was always there.

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The flames were leaping furiously into the warm summer night's velvet sky. Now and again a shower of golden sparks would break loose in a series of small explosions and they would whistle and cheer and bet each other on how many sparks would pop next time.

It had an almost hypnotic effect on all four of them. Steven remembered looking at the moonlit glow on the faces of his three best mates and thinking it was like party time. The sleepover at Gazza's had been ace (they were in the back garden, sleeping outside "like in the outback", with a stereo powered radio blasting, the kitchen light on and the kitchen door wide open, just in case they got too cold or too scared or both, telling a mixture of serial killer, ghost and UFO abduction stories and doing their utmost to terrorize one another) but this unexpected fire show was the highlight.

They had scrambled out of the tent immediately on hearing the first blast, stumbling past the empty pizza delivery boxes, managing to knock over the rest of the coke (_Aw, it was nearly finished and it's all gone on the grass anyway, _Andy claimed (falsely) his foot having been the one that kicked the bottle) and forgetting to hide the four large cans of lager that Jonno had nicked from his Dad's drinks cabinet.

The fire was somewhere down in the town, and it was a beaut! Even Gazza's folks were out watching.

"It's not a footie game, Gary," Gazza's Mum frowned disapprovingly as the fourteen-year-olds noisily greeted another round of firework-like sparks. "Someone could have been hurt."

Steven and Gazza pulled amused faces at each other. It was just a fire. Huge maybe, but the fire rescue services always got there in time, didn't they? Nobody would be hurt. They wouldn't have been fooling around like they were if someone had been hurt.

Gazza had been born over fifteen years after his two older sisters (it was they who often had to persuade them to let Gazza do stuff like sleepovers and camping out) and his olds were worriers, strait-laced, middle-aged people, the total opposites of Steven's parents. Gazza's Mum always called everyone by their full name, which Steven hated then because he was Ste or Stevo to everyone else.

But, after the fire, he never shortened his name again. Trying to distance himself from the terrible knowledge that he had watched, laughing and joking and cheering, while his Mum and Dad were burnt to death.

Because one minute you don't have a care in the world, apart from whether the tingling on your mouth is the start of another coldsore and if you stood a chance with the new chick at school (and the odds are good seeing you're one of the populars and you've got looks and personality). Then the phone's shrill ringing suddenly shrieks through the night and you don't think anything of it till Gazza's Mum comes out again, a strange expression on her face, and whispers something to Gazza's Dad that you're sure has something to do with you but you can't figure why it should. Not till she turns and says, "Steven, the fire..."

The first night after the fire he slept for twelve hours, knocked out by the calming drug the doctor administered, plunging quickly into a black pool of dreamless sleep as if a light had suddenly been switched off in his mind,. But calming drugs can't be given every night and that's when the nightmares will come instead.

They were always the same. He would be strolling along by a narrow stretch of water on a perfect, calm summer's day when he would hear his parents calling to him from over the other side, and when he looked up it was to see a line of uneven fire crawling nearer and higher through the grass behind them. But his feet were like lead and he didn't move. He only stood, listening to their screams, and watching through the grey, curling smoke while sparks fired through the sky like shooting stars and somewhere in the distance a phone rang unanswered. And their cries to him to help would grow fainter and more desperate as the red hot fire grew and engulfed them, melting them like plastic until they were no more.

Steven didn't cry. Crying wasn't a guy thing. Neither was being afraid. But he was. In the dreams, afraid to go near the fire in case he too was swallowed forever. In his waking life, afraid of the tiniest flame. And most afraid of anyone discovering his terror.

But Sally could cry. Sally could invent a stupid story of an imaginary friend to cope with her loss. And everyone said _poor little Sally _and remarked on how brave Steven had been. Steven, who couldn't cry and couldn't tell anyone about the nightmares.

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"Maybe she just had a hissy fit. You know how weird she is," Steven shrugged, surveying the trashed bedroom with a grim satisfaction. It had taken him no more than ten minutes. Easy enough to slip home during the arvo when you have a free study period and a key to the house and easy enough to "happen to be passing" later when Pippa was collecting the laundry.

"Steven!" Pippa reprimanded. "You know what Sally's been through. I thought you of all people would understand."

Secretly however Pippa was puzzled and hurt. Until Lynn refused to leave her friend, the Fletchers had never intended to foster a child as young as Sally and their preparations had been very last minute. Nevertheless, she and Tom had gone to a great deal of trouble to make Sally's bedroom exactly how they thought a small girl would like it.

Bright and airy, with posters of kittens and puppies, with a pretty pink bedset and matching lampshade, Sally's own little dressing table and her own brush, comb and mirror set, all initialled with a silver 'S', a dolls' house with torch bulbs for lights that Tom had made himself from a wooden box, complete with four tiny dolls and doll's furniture, some children's books (_Alice in Wonderland; Matilda; The Enchanted Wood_) that Pippa chose specially and planned to read with her; half a dozen cuddly toys and Pippa's own childhood doll "Mrs Martha"(a long-legged, long-yellow-haired rag doll knitted by her grandmother) left there for Sally to play with.

Now the pretty pink bedset and the toys were scattered on the floor, the posters torn down and the books ripped, but, worst of all, Mrs Martha's floppy hat had been tugged at so fiercely that she lay, looking dejected and pitiful, with stuffing oozing grotesquely from the back of her head.

Pippa sadly put down the laundry basket and picked up the rag doll. Sally had seemed such a sweet kid and Pippa had truly believed she would cherish Mrs Martha as much as she once had herself, being so sure that a little bit of Milko's friendship and a lot of her foster family's unconditional love was all that the little girl needed.

"Yeh. Sorry. Didn't really mean it like that." Steven's words brought her back to the present as he dropped his gaze to fake suitable remorse, then glanced up at Pippa with a flash of his dark, handsome eyes. Funny how easily he could still switch on the charm.

"The poor kid," he added, managing to inject a convincing note of hoarseness into his voice. "Who knows what's going on inside her head, what with this always having to count stuff and Milko and all?"

"Sally's had a tough time of it," Pippa reminded him. "She needs us all to help her through."

"Well, don't you worry, Pip, I'll look out for her. Here, I'll help you tidy up." Steven smiled one of his disarming smiles, flicking back his mop of dark, unruly hair. _Bye, bye, Sally, 'cos this is just the start._

"Thanks, Steven," Pippa said gratefully.

He was a good kid. She couldn't tell him how she and Tom had sat up late last night, after they'd finally settled Sally who'd been convinced the branches of the old garden tree was a monster tapping on her window, discussing if they'd bitten off more than they could chew when they'd agreed to foster someone so young. They both loved fostering, but they had only ever fostered older kids before and, no matter what their problems, older kids could understand much, much more than an eight-year-old could. Tom and Pippa had a rapport with teenagers, there was no denying that, but how did they even begin to mend a child's broken heart and a heart as bruised as Sally's?

If the little girl was upset enough to destroy her own bedroom, it might be they were unwittingly making her emotional damage worse. Perhaps Sally missed the stability and her friends at the Home. It hadn't been fair of the Fletchers to take her away from all that she knew simply because Lynn, albeit with the best of intentions, had wanted them to. How many times in Sally's young life had she already had everything that was familiar and the people she loved snatched away from her?

Pippa sighed deeply as she picked up torn pages and deposited them in the bin. She hated to give up on a kid, but if Sally was this unhappy, they might have to grant her wish and let her go back.  
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"_...three, four, make it once more..."_

Sally paused to peer round the old, dusty locker room door with its broken lock and caught a breath. The Phillips brothers. And Milko. Milko leaning against the filthy window pane, looking just as mean as Scott Phillips was looking right now.

"Jeez, ya ------- loon!" Scott guffawed. He had obviously overheard the muttered counting.

Sally looked at Milko but he only glared at her.

"What ya starin' at, dork?" Scotty demanded.

"Milko," Sally whispered. "He should be with me. He's my friend."

Kane looked too. "Well, tough, 'cos he ain't now, are ya, mate?"

Scott swung quickly round to the window, but only a large grey cobweb fluttered in its corner. These two were gonna have him going nuts. The sooner he put his plans in action the better.

"We just might let ya have him back," he said. "But first ya gotta do some things."

"What?" Sally's heart thudded like a hammer against her chest. She'd do anything to get Milko back. Anything. She was pretty sure Milko looked hopeful for a minute too, even though he still had his arms folded, glaring at her.

"The Fletchers must have heaps of money to foster all you bloody kids. All ya gotta do is get me twenty dollars."

"I can't..."

"Then Milko's a goner," Scott said coolly, pretending to blow smoke from a gun.

Kane blanched and so did Milko, which made him even whiter than usual. He wasn't glaring at Sally now. He just looked sad. Poor Milko. It wasn't his fault he'd been kidnapped and had to hang round with Kane and Scott Phillips.

Sally bit her lip. "Alright," she agreed reluctantly, clenching her fists with anxiety and feeling she was going to be sick. Pippa was nice. She didn't want to steal from her, but she needed Milko back so badly. She closed her eyes. _If I can count backwards from twenty I won't have to do it, have to say it three times, if I can count backwards from twenty I won't have to do it, if I can count backwards from twenty I won't have to do it...twenty, nineteen, eighteen..."_

Sally felt her fingers being suddenly unclenched and something rattled strangely as it was pressed into her hand. She looked down. It was a box of matches.

"What the hell do you kids think you're doing here? How many times do you have to be told it's _DAAANGERRROUS?_ I'm gonna have to take you to see Mrs Bryant."

Sally had been too busy counting to hear Billy Jackson, the janitor, but Scott hadn't. And Billy was in a foul mood. Penny Bryant, the principal, had pulled him up over Toby damaging the flower garden. Some idiot had moved the _Danger - Keep Out _sign from outside the disused locker rooms again. And it was raining, which meant the reception area was full of muddy footprints that needed to be mopped up so he hadn't had time for his usual scalding hot cuppa and thick wedge of toast. Like his cat, Billy had always hated rain.

Scott shrugged innocently. "Some kids come down here to smoke. Me and my bro just came to check there weren't none here."

Sally gasped and swiftly placed her hands behind her back. She had told Pippa yesterday she wanted to go back to the Home. But when the monster had tapped on the window last night, Pippa had sat on Sally's bed and held her and dried her tears and stroked Sally's hair, and whispered her a story of how she too had been scared of shadows when she was a little girl.

And Sally had felt warm and safe. She didn't remember her mother but she remembered when she used to sit Sally on her lap and how her breath would gently tickle her neck. Where Pippa's breath had tickled.

Sally felt she wanted to stay with Pippa forever. But what if Pippa wouldn't have her back? What if Pippa believed she'd been smoking and had her sent her back to the Home and she never saw Pippa or Milko or Summer Bay ever again...?


	5. Chapter 5

**chapter 5**

But everybody left her in the end. Milko had been the only one who ever stayed, but now he'd been kidnapped even he too might disappear forever. A terrifying picture came into Sally's mind, of the terrible sea carrying Milko and Pippa out on its grey stormy water towards the rocks. Her bottom lip quivered and large, salty tears spilled down her cheeks.

Despite his bad mood (the rain was easing now, but Billy could hear a steady dripping from somewhere, which meant yet another repair job) the janitor's soft heart melted. Having had several run-ins with them in the past, normally he wouldn't have hesitated to dob in the rough, foul-mouthed Phillips boys but the little girl was different. Billy had never seen her before but he'd heard on the grapevine that the Fletchers were fostering a kid who'd had both her parents die in a boating accident. This kid looked so lost and lonely with her big eyes and air of vulnerability that she just had to be little Sally. It was good if she was making friends, albeit with the Phillips brothers. Billy wasn't going to be the one to tear that friendship away from her; heaven only knew, the poor mite had lost enough in this life already.

"Okay, I'm going to let y'all off with a warning this time," he said gruffly. "But if I _ever_ catch any of you here again..." Billy glared sternly, which sent shivers of fear down Sally's spine, but which both Scott and Kane found highly amusing though they were careful not to show it. "Now get out of my sight - fast! - before I go and change my mind!"

Sally would have scurried off in the direction of home except, with a silent nod to each other, the Phillips, fooling Billy into thinking he was right and all three were best mates, grabbed hold of her arms, Sally having already slipped the matches into her pocket (Kane's tough guy act a little spoilt by the fact his head barely reached her elbow) and marched her quickly off to a quiet corner.

"Twenty dollars!" Scotty reminded her. "By school Monday, jerk, or Milko carks it!"

"I'll get it," Sally promised breathlessly.

"You better!" Scotty brought his face close to the little girl's, leaving poor Sally shaking with fear.

She watched Scott and Milko turning the corner together. Milko had his hands in his pockets and his head down so she couldn't tell if he was really scared or only pretending to be. Sally couldn't make up her mind if he was in cahoots with Kane and Scott or not. She was still thinking about it when someone suddenly tapped her arm, making her jump.

"Listen!" Kane hissed. "I've been thinkin'. I just wanna make sure we got the right bloke. 'Cos it ain't fair if we've kidnapped the wrong guy now, is it? I mean, what if he's got a twin or somethin'? What does your mate Milko look like?"

Sally thought for a moment. Very few people had ever asked the question. Lynn asked once, but had only smiled and said Sally was sweet when Sally told her, and Sally had a feeling, not for the first time, that the older girl thought Sally was just a cute bub. A couple of kids at the Home had asked, but only to tease her. And the lady with the briefcase, who came to the Home specially to sit at the desk and give Sally cards so she could guess what the shapes meant, had asked heaps of questions, like what did Milko look like and did Sally believe Milko was a real person? (Milko, who was sitting in the chair next to Sally, hadn't liked that one bit and had glared and coughed - so much so that he eventually had a coughing fit - but the lady still hadn't taken any notice of him.)

Sally looked sadly towards the corner that Milko had disappeared round. She knew Milko didn't have a twin. He would have told her if he had, even though he hadn't been talking very much to anyone lately. Unfortunately, little Sally was very honest and not very worldly and it didn't occur to her for a second that she could lie and win him back.

"Well, he's very tall and he's very pale," she sighed sadly. "And he always wears white shorts, white shirt and white trainers, and he usually wears a red hat but he's wearing a black hat today because he's very unhappy."

Kane sighed too. "Yup. We got Milko alright," he nodded.

Damn! He'd been half hoping they hadn't while half hoping they had. Kane had mixed feelings over the kidnap. It was cool having an invisible mate and it was cool having a patsy to nick for them. But the sookiness always kicked in at the most awkward times. Kane had felt very uncomfortable again when Sally cried. It reminded him of when Dad treated Mum rough and made her cry and Kane hated him for it.

"But don't ya worry, we'll take good care of him. If we don't kill him," he added, anxious to reassure. He sighed again. Milko was sorted, but he didn't know what the hell to do about the other problem.

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Steven sat on a sheltered part of the beach, staring out into the distance, while the last of the rain trickled down over the cliffs. Normally on a Friday he would have been with a gang of mates, playing footie or surfing or watching the chicks. But sometimes he needed to be totally by himself. To think. He drew his knees up to his chin and re-lived the night he had cheered while his parents were being burnt to death.

"_Someone could be hurt," Gazza's Mum said._

_He and Gazza laughed. Nobody would be hurt._

"_Steven, the fire..."_

He scooped up a handful of wet, crumbling sand and let it run through his fingers. That was how quickly Mum and Dad were gone. How quickly his life turned around.

Gazza, Andy and Jonno, his three best mates whom he'd grown up with, gone to school with, were long gone now too. Not dead, of course, just living out their own lives, far, far away from foster families and Summer Bay. He had nothing in common with Gazza, Andy and Jonno anymore. They still lived in a world where you got cash from your olds for birthdays, did your homework assignment (or pretended to do your homework assignment) in your own bedroom in comfort while watching TV, threw your school bag and school tie down anywhere the minute you got in, yelling what was for tea. Being fostered was different. All of a sudden nothing was how it used to be.

Your foster brother, snoring like an express train pulling into a station every night, stopped you from sleeping, even when you pressed a pillow against your ears to drown out the sound and pictured happy little scenarios of pressing the pillow against Frank's face and the blissful silence that would follow. Thanks to Carly and Lynn, half the time you couldn't get in the bathroom and, when you finally did, it was full of steam and flowery scents that choked you, and lipstick, brushes, mascara, shampoo and fancy bottles took up all the space on the bathroom shelves so that there was barely any room to put down even one small black comb but - sheesh! - knock anything over under penalty of death! Worst of all, you had a loopy little sister who thought she had an invisible friend and who shuffled round walls, counting under her breath, because it was some kind of magic spell that kept everyone safe.

But he had more in common with Sally than anyone else.

It was always Sally and Steven who forgot and left their school bags for someone to trip over; who got orange juice or felt tip pen on their uniform; who crashed into furniture because they were too busy running to look where they were going. Except Sally hadn't laughed and joked while _her _Mum and Dad died.

Steven gulped back a sob and looked swiftly round in alarm, but there were only the sea birds to see the tears shining on his face. And to hear him crying, so quiet and still, that even the smallest finally became bold enough to land and peck round the nearby rockpool.

Steven half watched as more and more birds swooped, fluttering and fighting in their search for food after the deluge of rain, vainly trying to blink back the tears that, now they'd started, refused to stop falling. Sometimes he felt as mixed up as Sally must be. The only difference was that Steven dealt with the death of his parents by surrounding himself with crowds of mates and being as loud as possible while Sally locked herself in her own little world.

It had been a shock when, while they were tidying up, Pippa remarked she'd have to stitch the rag doll and told him about when her grandmother had knitted it for her. _Pippa's _doll! Steven had almost blurted out there and then that he'd thought Mrs Martha belonged to Sally, stopping himself just in time and not being brave enough to admit to being behind the damage. But it was a timely wake-up call. What the hell was happening to him?

Stevo would never have picked on little kids, no matter how angry he was. Stevo would have been the first to wade in and stop it. Steven drew a deep, tear-filled breath. It wasn't going to be easy, she drove him crazy with all this stupid Milko business, but maybe it was time he got Sally onside.

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"And what the hell you doin', havin' all these cosy chats with the freak like ya's're ------- bezzie mates?" Scott demanded.

Kane looked at Milko, who'd just put down his knife and fork, and back at Scotty. "I had to check we kidnapped the right guy."

Scotty lashed out. He couldn't help himself. Sometimes his saint-like patience with his kid bro wore so thin that a mere hefty kick or fierce shove just wouldn't do. He picked up the nearest object, a cracked and dirty dinner plate (the next-last-but-two of the blue-ribbon-patterned set, Mr and Mrs Phillips already being extremely fond of hurling crockery at each other and their eldest son having inherited their talent) and crashed it down on his little brother's head. Kane staggered backwards, sucking in a breath and dizzy from the pain, picking blood-spattered pieces of plate out of his hair and, impressing himself with his sensitive regard to hygiene, tossing them down on the kitchen table where, he reckoned, Mum wouldn't slip and would find it heaps easier to clean them up from than the floor. After all, she could just get the old sweeping brush and sweep them off the table straight into the garbo bin.

Their mother's screams and an accompanying thudding were echoing round the house at that moment but neither was taking much notice. Dad bashed her pretty much every night. Scott had become immune to it all while Kane, following his older brother's advice on previous similar occasions, was trying hard not to listen.

Their olds being busy was the reason Scott and Kane had tonight cooked their own supper of burnt toast and "scrambled" eggs (Scott had meant to fry the eggs but the frying pan and eggs had apparently had ideas of their own and Kane had been too preoccupied with trying to figure out how the toaster switched off to help).

"When will ya get it into ya thick skull?" Scotty yelled, "We couldn't ------- well have exactly kidnapped the _wrong_ guy because Milko doesn't ------- well exist!"

Kane glanced up at Milko, who, although he didn't look very happy to be called a non-entity, only shrugged. Kane guessed he was used to being ignored.

"Yeh, well, I _------- _well _know_ we got the right guy 'cos he's invisible and he looks like what the dork said _and_ he ate the invisible steak, chips and berries!" Kane yelled back, while making sure the table was between him and Scott and the door was near enough to flee through because Scotty looked about to do his block. "But what are we gonna do about the other stuff?"

"What ------- other stuff?" Scott swung his fist dangerously. He couldn't take much more of these weird conversations. They were making his head feel like jelly. He was gonna _really_ lay into his bro soon as he caught hold of him. But what his little brother said next stopped him dead in his tracks.

"The invisible green dragon that keeps followin' us," Kane replied worriedly.


	6. Chapter 6

**chapter 6**

It must've been the knock on the head. Though he'd had heaps worse. Couldn't be nothing else. Unless...Though his eyes weren't rolling. And he hadn't been chucking up or acting weird (well, no more weird than Kane usually did) if you didn't count the Milko hallucinations. But it was the only thing Scott could think of. And Kane himself had used the word.

"What the ---- you on about now? If you've been takin' any of Dad's stuff..."

"Nah, nah, I haven't, Scotty, swear! Ya think I don't wanna live?"

Kane paused from picking blood-smeared plate chippings from his hair, and glanced up at a corner of the ceiling as their mother gave a particularly long, strangled scream that tore at his heart. But getting bashed was what happened to sooks. No more than they deserved, Dad and Scotty always said. He returned to the problem in hand.

The baby green dragon seemed a friendly little fellow. But, as dragons do, he had a terrible habit of breathing out fire. That was fine when they were outside, but not so easy to deal with now they were indoors.

"But what we gonna do about Fred? _We_ can't keep him...sorry, mate, we just _can't," _he added guiltily to the dragon. "I asked Milko but he ain't his and anyway he's only a bub, he needs to be with his olds, don't he? And he's already burnt a hole in the door...I did hell dob you in, you told everyone..."

Kane knew he was rambling but couldn't stop himself. It was something he always did when Scotty or Dad spat the dummy or Mum sat still as a statue staring into nothingness with blood pouring down her face from Dad latest punch.

"You are exactly one ------- stupid ...," Scott began.

But Kane never found out exactly what he was. The Phillips brothers froze, both hearing it at the same time. Dad. Dad, drugged, drunk and dangerous. Stumbling downstairs, laughing manically, slamming his fist against the wall, yelling he was going to kill his kids for fun. At times like this, united against the common enemy, Scott and Kane always took a rain check on any blues, to be pencilled in for a later, more convenient date.

"Run!" Scotty advised, pulling open the old wooden kitchen door so hard that it almost jerked off its hinges.

Not content with its earlier drenching of the Bay, the rain had thought things over during the sunny break and, deciding on a little company, had returned together with a powerful thunderstorm, both of them hitting every one of the little coastal towns that stretched from Summer Bay to Summerhill, whipping up waves, tossing ships and streaming through trees, their drama all played out with the wild music of thunder and against the impressive backdrop of frequent wild lightning flashes.  
A bleak, dismal evening, not for the faint-hearted. That only the most foolish would venture out into. And the most desperate and afraid.

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"Sally..."

Sally paused, her foot on the bottom stair. Lynn and Carly carried on pounding their way upstairs, and forgetting about her instantly, claimed the little twinge of sadness that shuddered through her small body.

To Sally's surprise, she had enjoyed dinner. Normally she hated the evening meal because Steven was there. But Steven had been crook and was upstairs lying down so nobody minded or even cared that she carefully ate her food from the outside in, in ever decreasing circles that cleaned the plate. Nobody kicked her under the table and whispered _"Silly Sally, Sally silly, silly Sally is a silly wuss"_ or sang _"Sally, Sally, pride of our alley" _under their breath.

Everybody had been laughing and teasing Frank because he had a date, and Frank had sometimes gone red and sometimes got mad, but mostly he'd grinned and, smelling of Tom's aftershave and heaps too much of it, he'd ruffled Sally's hair when he got up from the table to go meet his date and said Sally was the only mate a bloke had round these parts (Sally being too shy to do any teasing). Nobody had called her a jerk either, when Sally managed to spill gravy all down the front of her school dress, which didn't really matter because Fridays nobody had to bother changing out of uniform (though the older ones always did) when they got home, weekends being when the whole of the uniforms, not just some of it like during the week, were spun frantically round in soapy suds in the family size washing machine.

When Carly had said to Lynn _"let's go up to our room and listen to some music"_ Sally jumped up too, assuming she was included, but obviously that wasn't the case because Lynn and Carly hadn't even turned round to see what was keeping her.

Pippa smiled and leaned conspiratorially on the stair rail. "Hey. How d'you like to go visit my friend Colleen and try some of her amazing chocolate cookies and blueberry muffins? She made a fresh batch today and said I could take some back for this greedy lot. Just you and me though. Oh, and Milko."

"Thank you, Pippa. It will be a pleasure," Sally said earnestly. "But I'm afraid Milko can't make it. He's very, very, _very_ busy." She added, feeling that Milko's rudeness required an explanation.

"No worries, sweetheart," Pippa said, idly wondering what on earth the self-important Milko did to keep himself so intensely occupied, making to push back Sally's inevitable stray tendril of hair and shocked and not a little hurt when her foster daughter flinched and moved her head away.

Pippa _couldn't _be nice to her when she was going to do something so mean back! Sally hadn't worked out yet how she was going to steal the twenty dollars but the Phillips brothers said they wouldn't return Milko unless she got the money and so it had to be done. She bit her lip and turned sadly, unable to look Pippa in the eye.  
Soon she would be back in the Home, with Milko, but branded a thief. Pippa wouldn't like her anymore. Nobody would. They'd keep her fingerprints on file and put _Not Wanted _posters of her up at police stations all across Australia to warn off other foster parents.

She sighed a sigh that broke Pippa's heart, if only she knew. Everyone left her in the end. Mum and Dad. Gran. Isabel and Rico. Old Mrs Bellamy and her two funny cats, who used to run up to Sally mewing whenever she and Gran visited as if anxious to tell her all about their day. Best not to get close to Pippa even though she wanted to stay with Pippa and Tom, oh, more than anything, more than anything else in the whole wide world.

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There were often empty sacks to be found under the bridge on the wharf. If you didn't mind the rats taking the occasional curious nibble of you and the itchiness of the sacking, it was a good place to doss down, where you could stay fairly warm and dry.

"Reckon we're here for the ------- night. Again!" Scott asserted, turning up his collar, having had the foresight to snatch his old jacket off the back door hook as they fled.

Kane shivered, watching small spots of blood falling down from his forehead, leaning shakily on something that dug uncomfortably into his back, and too tired to shift position. Fridays were often like this. Dad got his welfare cheque and blew it all down the nearest pub. Mum got bashed. Scotty and Kane shot through and slept rough down on the wharf. And he felt sooo crook.

His head was banging though he couldn't tell if it was from the running or from Scott smashing the plate down on it. His shirt was wringing wet and clinging to him. The rain had discovered a random opening on the wooden bridge and was gleefully trickling down in a steady drip.

So far they had escaped Dad's regular Friday evening threats to kill them but it could only be a matter of time before they didn't.

"Maybe if we told Mum about Dad...?" Kane suggested hopefully, when he finally found strength enough to draw breath.

Scott guffawed at his kid bro's naivety. "---- that, what's she gonna do? Beat him to a pulp? Hire a ------- hitman? We gotta look out for ourselves 'cos it's just us and it's always gonna be just us."

Kane nodded. He looked round. Scotty was right. It was just them. It always would be. Just him and Scotty. Milko and Fred. And Deefa the dog.

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"Thank you for a most enjoyable time," Sally said as they arrived home from Mrs Smart's.

"Oh, I almost forgot..." Smiling, Pippa handed over the newly repaired rag doll and chose her words carefully. "Mrs Martha was feeling a bit crook after her fall this arvo but I reckon she's much better now she's had her stitches. Though I daresay a much-needed hug wouldn't go amiss!"

"Thank you. I daresay it wouldn't," Sally agreed in her quaint, old-fashioned way, accepting the doll, but making no attempt to give Mrs Martha the much-needed hug.

"And, Sal, if you ever want to talk to me, you know you can. About anything."

Pippa's natural instinct would have been to envelop Sally herself in a much-needed hug, but, remembering how the little girl had earlier flinched from her touch, she was wary of too much, too soon. Poor little Sally. So afraid to show emotion. So prim and neat and polite that sometimes it was like talking to a grown-up character who'd just jumped out of a book, and yet a child who spilt gravy all down her school uniform, who talked to an imaginary friend and thought the shadow of the big tree was a monster.

Pippa had really thought they'd made a connection after the tree scare, when she'd dried her tears and rocked her to sleep, but next morning Sally had been her usual distant self.

The visit to Colleen Smart, and giving their youngest child Pippa's undivided attention as she and Tom had planned, hadn't worked. Sally hadn't opened up at all. In fact, she had barely spoken, being very much in awe of the big-hearted but gossipy, talkative Colleen. Though she had seemed to like Colleen's almost grown up son, kindly, bumbling Lance, falling over his own feet and getting a rap on the knuckles with a wooden spoon when Colleen caught him and Sally scooping out the delicious cake mixture left in the bowl with their fingers (_she had overheard everything and knew it had been Lance's idea so Lance could face the music, Colleen said_) and once or twice Pippa saw Sally smile shyly at something Lance said or did.

"That's very kind of you, Pippa. And I will always bear it in mind," Sally replied gravely, in answer to Pippa's invitation.

She had no idea what "bear it in mind" meant but Granny, not long before she had to go into hospital, often said it when she donned her very best dress and jewellery, got out the china tea-set and announced her friend the Queen of England was expected for tea and cakes. Of course the Queen never turned up and her grandmother would look very sad and dab her eyes with her lace handkerchief, then bravely smile and tell Sally the Queen was a very busy lady and they must always bear it in mind.

A rumble of thunder all but drowned out Sally's quiet little voice. The storm had started while they were in Pippa's car, but had grown much worse since.

"Sal, if you're frightened of the thunder..." Pippa said gently.

"Oh, no. I'm not," Sally answered composedly. "I used to be, when I was little, but I've seen heaps of storms since I've been in the Home. I'll be no trouble at all."

"I know you won't, sweetheart," Pippa said, thinking there was so much heartache in those wide eyes.

She looked sad, Sally thought, as she trudged upstairs. Lance had lent her a video about two dogs and a cat who were trying to find their way back home and had great adventures along the way and Pippa had said to ask the others if they wanted to watch too, when she'd changed into something else so that Pippa could all put the uniforms in the big washing machine.

Sally blinked back tears. Pippa was nice. She didn't know Sally couldn't hug Mrs Martha. She and Mrs Martha couldn't afford to get close. When Sally was returned to the Home in disgrace the parting would break both their hearts. She closed the door soundlessly and placed the rag doll on top of the window-sill. It was for the best. When Mrs Martha realised her new owner intended to leave her cold and alone to fend for herself she'd be glad when Sally was gone. But it was hard to be cruel.

"I'm very sorry, Mrs Martha," she whispered.

"Sally!"

Sally spun round, startled. To her horror, her arch enemy was sitting on the bed.

"It's my room! You're not allowed, Steven! You're not allowed" Sally gave emphasis to her words with a vehement shaking of her head.

"Yeh, I know, I know, just listen..."

Steven had already said her name twice before, but the thunder had been crashing loudly overhead. He had slipped into the room when he'd heard Pippa and Sally coming back, having made up his mind to own up to Sally about the trashing, unaware that Sally still didn't know a thing about it. But _nooo waaay _was Steven going to admit to it in front of anyone else. His foster brother and sisters would be horrified, not just by his meanness to Sally, but because he'd hurt Pippa too. But telling Sally would be a weight off his mind. Despite his impatience with Sally, Steven realised that the little girl had a very soft heart and would keep it to herself.

"You're not allowed!"

Sally was frantic. There was no Milko or anyone else to help her. She could hear Lynn and Carly's music pounding, but the thunderstorm cancelled out everything else. And Steven would be be mean and call her names and kick her or pinch her.

"Sal, let me finish. I just want us to be..."

"You're not allowed! You're not allowed! Go away, Steven, or I'll..."

Sally suddenly remembered something. They'd been in her pocket, forgotten, all this time.

"Burn you," she finished, not knowing that fire was Steven's greatest fear, as she struck the match.


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks for your lovely reviews, greatly appreciated. :o) Sorry for the long delay, I work full time and I'm a very slow writer plus I've been away on holiday.

**chapter 7**

_yesterday_

The torch needed two 9v batteries and he could only find one. Steven impatiently pulled the drawer out, turned it upside down and tumbled its contents to the floor but still no sign of its companion. Damn! The torch had an exceptionally powerful beam and he'd been looking forward to impressing his mates tonight at the sleepover.

Though none of their parents knew it yet, Steven, Gazza, Jonno and Andy had made a pact to camp out in the Bush in exactly twelve months' time and Gazza's back garden was to be the trial run. Okay, they weren't exactly taking the trial run too seriously - they intended to order pizza, for instance - but, hey, you had to start somewhere. And Steven wanted to try out the torch tonight; they'd need it when they finally did get to camp in the middle of nowhere.

Damn, why the hell had he left packing his overnight bag till ten minutes before he was due to be picked up by Jonno's Dad? There wasn't even time now to dash out to the store. And that was when he had the brainwave. Steven had always been agile. Without giving it a second thought, he scaled the banister, and, with one hand pressed against the ceiling to keep his balance, deftly removed the battery from the smoke alarm, and quietly replaced the cover. No worries! He'd re-insert the battery when he got back and they'd never know.

"Stevie! Jonno's here!"

"Okay, Mum!"

Steven was still breathless when he poked his head round the door. Just in time! He glanced at the scattered jumble of clothes, the result of his last-minute packing. Mum would probably make her usual sarcastic comment about his room having been burgled, but then tidy it all as usual. He grinned. He was spoilt rotten and knew it. But people couldn't help liking Steven Matheson. Long ago when he'd been a little kid of four or five a neighbour had remarked to his mother - prophetically as it turned out - that all that Steven would ever have to do to get his own way was smile. Good looks, a lazy, laid back charm, everything in life came easy to Steven and nothing ever ruffled him.

He picked up his hastily packed rucksack and ran downstairs, yelling to Jonno about the big footie game last night. And all the while the faulty wire was slowly burning through, preparing to strike in the dead of the night, and the very last, the only chance, his Mum and Dad would ever have of getting out of the fire alive had been taken away.

"_Steven, the fire..."_

The fire he had stood cheering with his best mates, slightly drunk, like they all were, on four large cans of lager and two large bottles of strong cider, unaware the electrical sparks flying into the air came from his own home where his parents were being burnt to death.

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_today_

Sally trembled. The flame wavered. The look on Steven's face was frightening her. Why didn't he move, shout at her, call her a sook or something as usual? Why was he sitting so _still?_

"One, two, three..." she began to count in a frightened, warning whisper, her heart pounding.

The match was wearing down and she didn't want to burn anyone and there was no Milko and Sally didn't know what to do. And then the decision was made for her. The yellow flame flared up abruptly and Sally screamed in pain and quickly dropped the match, where it burnt a tiny black hole in the carpet before a random draught caught it in its breath and its brief life and moment of glory gone forever.

But not so Sally's screaming. The ground began to rock, to sway beneath her feet just as it had that long-ago day of the terrible sea...

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The door was wide open, just as they had left it the previous night. In Summerhill, the rough coastal town where the Phillips lived, leaving open doors was not generally considered a wise thing to do but, fortunately, no one would dare steal from Richie "Gus" Phillips. Kane and Scott staggered in, tired, thirsty, exhausted and bedraggled, trailing wet, muddy footprints from the pool of last night's rain, and their mother looked up calmly from frying bacon as though they had merely been gone ten minutes on some innocent errand.

"Your Dad's sleeping it off so get changed and yas can have some brekkie," she said, a fresh purple bruise stretching from her eye to her mouth, holding an arm across her stomach and moving awkwardly.

So they crept slowly, shoeless, up the stairs, avoiding with expert ease the stairs they knew to creak, and, warily listening out for Dad's snores, silently changed into the old but clean clothes she had laid out on their beds, and crept back down just as quietly.

"The freak's gonna nick heaps for us and make us rich and then one day we're gonna shoot through away from Dad," Scotty predicted with grim determination, sick and tired of having to sleep outdoors.

"Wow! All of us?" Kane asked hopefully, in the same hushed tones that they all always used when Richie Phillips was sleeping.

"Maybe." Scott glanced at his mother, who was busy forking the bacon rashers from the pan. He wasn't going to tell Kane that Mum didn't figure in his plans. Kane was too much of a sook. It wasn't that Scotty was totally without sympathy for her, he had a thimbleful, but, you had to look out for yourself and wherever Mum went Dad would follow so, tough, but she was out the circle.

"Wow!" Kane said again, in awe. Now probably wasn't a good time to tell Scotty that he also planned to bring along the invisible Milko, Fred the invisible dragon and Deefa, the invisible dopey-looking dog who had latched on to them shortly after Fred's arrival.

"There yas go!" Diane Phillips whispered, smiling as she laid down plates and a bottle of tomato sauce, proud to have provided a cooked breakfast for her sons for once though she knew she risked a bashing from her husband if he found out.

Diane didn't dare take any bacon for herself. Richie would notice if more than six rashers were gone. She cupped her hands around a mug of steaming tea. She would have given her boys anything. If only she didn't have to get by through a fog of alcohol most days but drink was the only way to dull the pain.

The three of them finished off their feast with toast and jam, hardly daring breathe in case Richie woke, and the clock ticked loudly through the quiet of their dreams.

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Frank's good mood had long since evaporated. Lisa hadn't been too happy when they'd got caught in the storm last night and had blamed Frank for her hair getting ruined. In fact, she'd blamed Frank for everything - because the restaurant hadn't come up to her (impossible) standards - "flashy and trashy" she'd called it. (Hell, he had saved and _saved_ for that meal, out of the pittance he earned from his Saturday job at the Yabbie Creek garage.)

Pippa had sounded a bit strained when he'd phoned to say he'd be spending the night at Lisa's. On the couch. Sheesh! He was over seventeen, for Crissake, and _responsible_. He had a mate at TAFE who'd got his girlfriend pregnant when they were both only sixteen and, though Craig loved his three-month-old daughter and had split with his girlfriend so was single again, he walked around with the whole world on his shoulders, spent every weekend playing happy families and lived in terror of failing his exams and not being able to support little Katie. Worse, in Frank's eyes at least, soon as any interested chick discovered Craig was a father she dropped him like a hot potato.

Well, Frank wasn't so stupid. He'd been prepared just in case. Not that he was ever likely to get the opportunity. Lisa's Dad hated him on the spot (Frank half expected him to pull a shotgun) and Lisa's Mum glared pointedly at the black bits of mud that had fallen off his trainers on to their luxury carpet (jeez, never mind that one of the Bay's sudden storms had hit and he was _drenched_, having sacrificed his jacket for their precious only child to put over her head, or that out at sea ships were being thrown around like matchsticks!)

Mr Davies gave (no, threw) him a towel and Mrs Davies reluctantly pointed him in the general direction of the guest bathroom and when he returned they had grudgingly agreed that there was no way (without incurring manslaughter charges, unfortunately) that they could send him out to catch pneumonia in Summer Bay's worst storm for a decade so he would have to stay the night. On the _couch_, Mr Davies stressed.

So Frank had spent a miserable evening, having to account for his non-existent career prospects, being made to feel thick as a plank (Harry Davies had quickly cottoned on to the fact Frank was far from academic and deliberately steered the conversation towards politics and the stock market), become acutely aware, for the first time in his life, that he slurped rather than, like the Davies family, gently sipped, his tea, and feeling gawky, awkward and uncharacteristically shy although he towered over Lisa's Dad.

And exactly how many times in one night did anyone need to come down for a glass of water? Did Mr Davies _really_ reckon he was going to sneak up to Lisa's bedroom the moment his back was turned? Anyway they didn't know their daughter at all. Not one iota. The only-strictly-necessary conversation with him over brekkie, the frosty looks and exasperated little sighs. Lisa had dumped him. Big time.

Animal cruelty had never figured on Frank's list of to-dos, but he was sure if there'd been a cat around he'd have been half inclined to kick it right now. As it was, kicking the door and stubbing his toe before unlocking it (as the eldest, Frank had the privilege of his own key) and then childishly kicking the door again in revenge had to suffice.

"Frank!" Tom reprimanded, looking up from the pile of mail he'd just collected.

"Sorry," Frank mumbled automatically.

"Want to talk about it, mate?" Tom curtailed his line of thought, after reading the astronomically high electricity bill, that maybe they'd been providing lighting and heating for every household in Oz .

"Nah. Ta." He added as an afterthought, following Tom into the kitchen and not knowing whether to be glad or sad that everyone looked as glum as he felt.

"G'day!" He muttered generally before Pippa got on to him about manners, and then "Thanks, Einstein!" as he sank into his usual seat, taking advantage of Pippa's distraction, and though he'd already eaten brekkie at Lisa's and wasn't hungry, by snatching up the last piece of toast as Steven reached for it.

Serve the wimp right. The guy shouldn't ace school and pass all his exams with flying colours, causing Frank to ponder on the possibility of him being another Harry-Davies-in-the-making.

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And, you know, it was all Sally's fault. She knew it was though nobody actually said so. She watched and listened and silently drank in the atmosphere as though it was a scene from the TV.

Frank, who'd been so happy last night and had ruffled Sally's hair, looked cross now he was back, probably because everyone else was, and _Sally_ had made them cross.

"Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase electric shock, doesn't it?" Tom had placed the bill on the kitchen unit and, resuming his task that collecting the post had interrupted, put four fresh slices of bread in the family size toaster. Pippa yawned from lack of sleep and sighed deeply as she read the amount and poured scalding water into the giant teapot.

Lynn, who felt the cold keenly and loved the sun, picked unenthusiastically at the cooked breakfast she normally relished. It had been Lynn's idea to put the little three-barred electric fire on for hours in their bedroom every night, which she and Carly had been doing for the past three or four weeks, sneaking it back downstairs early every morning, until they'd been unexpectedly caught out last night.

Sally's fault.

Her screaming had broken through the thunder and alerted the whole house so that everyone came running to see what awful tragedy had befallen and all it was...all it turned out to be...was Sally thinking the terrible sea was seeping in. Again.

"She does it heaps," Lynn shrugged helpfully, her arm round the younger girl's shoulder because Sally refused to let Pippa near her and couldn't tell Pippa why.

Carly frowned, realising that in their swift exit they had left open the bedroom door to reveal the electric fire in full glow, and she was about to run back but Tom had already seen it and was busy pulling the plug from the socket.

"Don't tell me you ever went to sleep with this thing on!" He exclaimed in disbelief.

"Only sometimes," Carly admitted petulantly, aware that she should have had more sense, but it had been sooo nice, when the temperatures dipped, to feel the warmth at night like the warmth of the sun by day.

"For God's sake, Carly, you could've set the house on fire!" Tom shook his head in despair, and Sally knew he was talking about the matches as well. She had stayed tight-lipped when her foster parents asked where she'd got them from. If she dobbed in the Phillips, Pippa and Tom would find out about Milko and Scott Phillips would carry out his threat to kill him.

And now _everyone_ was unhappy because of Sally. When Sally couldn't sleep after the sea scare, Pippa had sat in the room with her and she was still yawning now because she hadn't left her till three o'clock and still had to be up by seven while Sally could lie in much later. Tom was mad over the electric fire and even madder when he saw how high the electric bill was. Carly and Lynn had been upset at the severe telling-off they'd both been given last night and still had red rings under their eyes.

And Steven...well, Steven had been funny. Scary. Just sitting there, staring, whiter even than Milko had looked on the day he and Sally had had the vanilla ice-cream fight, and not moving, not moving at all, though he'd jumped when Tom mentioned setting the house on fire. Steven had barely said a word since and Pippa and Tom thought he was upset because Sally was and didn't ask him anymore.

Sally's fault.

She ate her food from the outside in, concentrating hard because sometimes the cornflakes swirled round in the milk and she couldn't tell which should be next.

And she remembered with a deep pang of sadness the time that she and Lynn had first come to visit the Fletchers, on a day out from the Home to get to know everyone, before the papers were signed and they could stay over. Milko had run everywhere, despite Sally telling him not to though she would have loved to run round herself. Of course, Milko being Milko, he fell over running upstairs but Pippa didn't mind when Sally told her; she smiled and said he was probably just excited, like they all were.

Tom had borrowed a people carrier from a friend specially (it only held seven people so Milko sat on the roof) and he drove them all on a tour of the Bay, then down to the Diner to meet Ailsa and Alf Stewart and have ice cold drinks, and on the way back they had sung silly songs and stopped to look for Milko's hat because it blew off as they turned a corner. And Sally and Milko had helped Pippa bake shortbread biscuits and shouted everyone to try them when they were done. Sally, Lynn and Milko had had a wonderful day and Milko fell asleep before they got back to the Home. But it all seemed a long time ago now. That was a time before Milko was kidnapped.

Sally's fault.

Before Milko was kidnapped, a couple of kids in her class warned her about the Phillips brothers and Sally said she'd have to be careful they didn't bully her invisible friend Milko. But then she wished she hadn't told them because they told the whole class and everyone laughed and teased her and said only babies had invisible friends. So Sally had no one but Milko and then she'd let Milko be kidnapped.

She gave a quiet little sigh that nobody heard and stared sadly into her glass of orange juice. It was sad but there was no help for it. It was all her own fault after all. Sally didn't mean to, but she made everybody unhappy. She would have to leave. She had called long enough.


	8. Chapter 8

**chapter 8**

"Laaannnceee!" Colleen grimaced. "You sound like a dying fish!"

Lance stopped mid-gargle and practised one more low note before turning to his mother, puzzled. "But dying fish _flap_, Mum."

"Not at the bottom of the ocean they don't," Colleen said firmly, placing two small cartons of juice in a large plastic container and snapping shut the lid.

Lance's brow creased into a bewildered frown. "But how do you know what a dying fish at the bottom of the ocean sounds like?"

"Never you mind. You sound like one and that's that. Now," Colleen added, with an air of brisk efficiency as she pressed the plastic container into her son's hands, "You won't go hungry because I've packed you tuna and mayo or cheese and onion sandwiches, an apple and a huge slice of my special chocolate cake. And you won't go thirsty because I've packed you two cartons of blackcurrant juice and plenty of water. So you just get out from under my feet while I do the cleaning. This place is like a pigsty." And Colleen looked round the bungalow-sized caravan, shaking her head at her son's untidiness.

Lance smiled, unoffended. Although he was twenty years old, his mother still treated him like a child but they had an easygoing relationship and a genuine affection for each other.

"You know, Mum, some folk reckon I got a real good voice."

"So you have, Lancey," Colleen said proudly, patting his cheek though she had to stand on her tiptoes to do so. "It's all that gargling that sounds like the dying fish. Can't think how it helps myself."

"It lub...lub..." Lance searched for the word in vain; "oils the vocal chords." He grinned. "And that's very important 'cos there's a new gal to impress."

Colleen sighed. "I might have known there'd be a girl behind all this. Now come on, Lancey, out, out! (_She passed him the fishing gear that she'd borrowed specially from Alf Stewart and, pressing her hands on both his shoulders, pushed him along)_ And if you're very good and stay out of my way, I'll make your favourite for tea tonight and you can tell me all about it this girl then."

"A fry-up? Like brekkie?" Lance asked, his eyes lighting up in delight. "Double eggs, heaps of bacon..."

"We'll see," Colleen said, closing the door behind him and the droning sound of the vacuum cleaner soon piercing the air.

And that was how Lance Smart, who'd planned to spend the morning rehearsing his singing, and who had never been even remotely interested in fishing, came to be standing at the bottom of the caravan steps carrying everything the modern angler needed to land a massive haul and looking every inch an expert fisherman.

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"Guys, guys!"

Sally jumped for a moment, Tom's voice slicing into her thoughts, before she realised he wasn't talking to her.

Frank and Steven were fighting again. Steven had mentioned he was going to help out at the annual Summer Bay talent contest so couldn't mow the grass round the caravan site till later. Frank, who'd been about to leave for his Saturday job at the garage, had turned round and demanded to know, "What use is a geeky swot to a talent contest? Going to wow them all with mathematical formulas or something, Einstein?"

"Keep your nose out of my business, El Thicko, and it was your turn, not mine, to tidy the bedroom yesterday," Steven fired back, reverting back to the still unresolved difference of opinion they'd had the previous day.

"Perhaps you could take your little sister with you to the beach?" Pippa suggested to Carly and Lynn, while Tom was busy sorting out the boys' latest blue.

Sally cut a forlorn figure staring miserably into her glass of orange juice. Maybe she'd asked for it for Milko though her foster mother had a strong feeling that the little girl had only agreed to a second glass to please her. And Pippa was baffled. Sally was still shying away from herself and Tom so it didn't make any sense that she should care about Pippa's feelings. Perhaps, Pippa thought, Sally felt she wasn't really part of the Fletcher family. There was a vast age difference after all and the poor little mite was often unintentionally overlooked by her older brothers and sisters.

Carly and Lynn exchanged unhappy glances as Lynn rinsed the knives, forks and spoons and Carly polished them dry, both wishing now that they hadn't been so talkative about their plans. Everyone, except Sally who was considered too young, had to take their turn at chores and today Lynn was on dish-washing duty, with Carly helping out because they were in a hurry to get out in the sun.

"I guess," Carly said reluctantly.

Sally was a nice enough kid but that was the problem. She was a _kid_ and they couldn't have kids hanging around today of all days. But it would be skating on very thin ice to refuse. They had only escaped a grounding by the skin of their teeth because Sally had been so shaken by last night's storm and Tom and Pippa didn't want any more disruption for her.

"Thanks," Pippa smiled. "Don't forget, kids - sun cream so you don't get burnt and heaps of water so you don't get dehydrated. Oh, and make sure Sally wears a hat."

"Sure, Pip," Carly sighed, forcing a smile back.

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"He's awake! He's awake!"

Actually, Kane and Scott didn't need telling, much less telling twice. They had looked up to the ceiling in sick apprehension the moment they heard the bed springs creak, long before their mother's loud, frightened whisper (frequent blows to her head had left Diane Phillips slightly hard of hearing) as their father's heavy tread pounded across the room above and water gurgled through the ancient pipes.

All three were trying to gage by his movements whether Richie Phillips was in a good or bad mood. If it was a good mood, Scott and Kane got pocket money and maybe too, if he happened to have some, a packet of chewing gum or mints. Most of all, if he was in a good mood, they wouldn't be bashed. (Richie either chose to forget, or genuinely did forget, his regular Friday night threats to kill them.) But if it was a bad mood...

Diane Phillips hastily snatched up their breakfast dishes and swilled their bacon-greased plates under the tap, frowning as she realised the water wasn't hot enough yet to wash up and therefore hide the evidence that they'd helped themselves to what Richie regarded as his food and nobody else's. So she stacked them, unwashed, in the broken cupboard under the sink and, taking a bottle and tumbler from out of the same hiding place, poured herself a generous amount of vodka, which she downed in two or three gulps.

Then, with a nod to her sons to stay quiet, she called up the stairs in conciliatory tones, "Richie! Richie, tea or coffee?"

Kane closed his eyes in relief. If Mum called Dad by his hated nickname of Gus, as she occasionally dared to when blotto, it meant she was sparring for a fight and all hell broke loose then, with everybody in the line of fire. But when she called him Richie, she had no intention of rocking the boat.

Receiving no answer to her enquiry, Diane pursed her lips and went reluctantly up the stairs. Kane and Scott listened closely to the voices, the first solicitous, the other little more than a snarl. They knew it wasn't looking good. The snarling voice was growing louder, the solicitous voice more afraid.

And then came the thud of a shoe or boot clattering to the floor and, as if chased by the hounds of hell, their mother ran downstairs, hastily wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her old faded cardigan, and frantically clicked on the kettle and re-lit the gas under the frying pan.

"You best get off, kids, and don't come back for a few hours," she advised, without turning around.

Tears sprang to Kane's eyes. The little boy's hunger pangs had gone now but he was tired, having hardly slept a wink last night, being frightened and bothered by the rats but even more frightened of waking Scott and incurring his older brother's wrath. His head banged from both a lack of sleep and from having Scotty crash land a dinner plate on it. He yearned to simply curl up and rest.

"But I don't wanna..." He began wearily.

A crack like a pistol shot suddenly struck the side of his face, leaving four red lines streaked across his cheek. Even the hardened Scotty, making full use of their last few minutes by cramming toast into his mouth and swigging from the milk carton so fast that milk dribbled down his chin, sucked in a breath.

"Had...had Milko, Fred and Deefa better come too?" The little boy blinked back the tears, looking blearily eyed at his invisible friends who seemed as unhappy as he was, and looking back up at his mother.

"Yes, Kaney, they better." Diane always used the baby name when feeling maternal towards him. She didn't have a clue what her small son was babbling about and she was hardly listening.

Richie had demanded breakfast: bacon, sausage, egg and tomato, and two thick buttered slices of toast served up with a mug of black coffee, and if it wasn't all on the table immediately he came down, she'd likely be used as a punchbag as would anyone else who didn't get out of his way. Better Kane felt a short, sharp blow now rather than his father's fists later. Her youngest son had to learn life wasn't a bowl of cherries.

"H'okay," Kane said, his voice thick with tears. Scott had decided it was high time he moved things along and had begun dragging him away, but Kane was sure he would understand if he appealed to his better nature. "The guys are heaps tired, Scotty, so we can walk real slow, can't we?"

" ---- off!" Scotty said in answer, helping him out the door with a kick.

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"But I don't want to take Mrs Martha! I don't want to take anything! I don't want to go!" Sally protested.

"Kids like playing with dolls," Carly shrugged absently, throwing the rag doll in the beach bag after the sketchbook and coloured pencils and glancing round Sally's little bedroom for anything else that might be used later for distracting Sally's attention.

Sally stared at the carpet's small burn-hole where the lighted match had died last night and wrung her hands in despair. Carly didn't understand. Sally _couldn't_ take Mrs Martha. Mrs Martha would think Sally liked her and - well, she did, but Mrs Martha couldn't know that. It wouldn't be fair on her when Sally left. Sally knew how awful it was and how much it hurt when people who loved you left you. And anyway Sally didn't want to tag on with Carly and Lynn, who obviously didn't want her, just because Pippa said they should take her with them to the beach.

"Carly," Sally said, close to tears, reverting to her grandmother's old-fashioned politeness of speech as she always did when anxious. "Carly, I do greatly appreciate your kindness and it's so very thoughtful of you, but I'm afraid sea air doesn't agree with Mrs Martha's health."

"What?" Carly stopped dead in her tracks, taken aback by the lofty words and the stiff way in which they were delivered, suddenly feeling like she was the child and Sally was a grown-up.

"Oh, they don't _argue_," Sally explained. (Old Mrs Bellamy, before she and her funny cats died, had once told Sally that onions didn't agree with her and had thought it very funny when Sally thought she meant onions could talk.) "Sea air can't talk, you see. I don't think Mrs Martha can either."

"Right," Carly said, baffled.

"Onions can't talk either," Sally added helpfully.

"Ri-_ight!" _Carly said again, more baffled than ever.

Lynn suddenly appeared, her grin as broad as a Cheshire cat's, waving a mysterious parcel at Carly. "I got everything, Carl! You guys ready?"

"No," Carly sighed. "Sally's...um...not quite sure whether she wants to come with us like Pippa said and I don't know how to persuade her."

"Easy!" Lynn declared breezily, throwing the mysterious parcel in the bag and peering in, "Come on, Sal, Milko's already in there."

"He is _not!" _Sally said indignantly. How dare Lynn even _think_ she would put Milko in a bag where he couldn't breathe? It was bad enough that poor Mrs Martha had been flung in there and a parcel flung down on top of her head!

"Oh, okay. My mistake. He climbed out. Look, there he is, waiting for us over there!" Lynn jabbed her finger at the far wall.

"He is _not!" _Sally said hotly, her hands on her hips.

Lynn was very seldom at a loss for words but she was stumped. "Well, where is he then?"

"He's..." Sally narrowly stopped herself from saying "kidnapped" and putting Milko's life in danger. "Somewhere," she finished lamely.

"Oh, come on, Sal. Please. We've arranged to meet these guys..."

"Ssshhh!" Carly warned.

"Sally won't dob us in," Lynn said. "She's a mate. We never lagged on each other at the Home, did we, Sal?"

Sally shook her head in agreement and then thought maybe she should _nod_ in agreement and then couldn't make up her mind which should be which so ended up doing both several times. Life was very confusing without Milko to tell her what to do.

"Is she okay?" Carly whispered to Lynn uncertainly.

"It's Sally!" Lynn said, as if that explained everything. She put her arm round her young friend's shoulders. "Okay. Sal. Carl and me, we've been hanging out with this cool new crowd and there's these two spunky guys, Pete and Spencer. And they like us, I mean _really_ like us...And you know we're in heaps with Tom and Pippa over the electric fire? We're on a good behaviour bond and if you don't come, Pips'll think we said you couldn't and we'll probably be grounded for, like, a thousand years! So, Sal, _please, please, please...?"_

"Okay," Sally said solemnly, and smiled politely as Lynn and Carly shouted "Yes!" and high-fived each other and then showed Sally how to high-five too, which she did, quite gravely.

"Let's go, guys!" Carly announced happily, picking up the beach bag.

It didn't matter, Sally told herself. Once she had run away from Summer Bay no one need ever worry about her again. She brushed away a solitary tear and followed on after the two older girls.


	9. Chapter 9

**chapter 9**

Steven called it his private beach. Not that he'd ever tell anyone that. It was where he came to be alone and think, and was a tiny, hidden-away place that could be accessed only by turning off the main touristy track, walking across rough terrain and sand dunes, then down through a large mass of slippery stones and finally jumping across the rock-pool.

Here there was a small cove in which to take shelter from the sudden storms or blistering heat, inside which, as if mindful of its future guest's comfort, over the years the sea had carved out a flat, almost chair-like rock seat, where Steven could sit and admire the panoramic views over the sea. Across the way, Devil's Leap, an infamous and deadly narrow gap in the cliffs, gave out spectacular sunrises and sunsets; on particularly clear days the distant landscapes seemed to stretch forever and, when the mid-day sun sizzled and blazed, the little costal towns across the water, with their pretty, sun-bathed houses and backgrounds of rolling cool green hills, shone as brightly as early technicolour films.

Despite its surrounding beauty and popularity with sea creatures (the area teemed with marine life and crowds of gulls, flapping their wings and squawking noisily, often flocked to select the tastiest small silver fish from the rock-pool as though it were their very own fast-food restaurant and the views across the sea their very own drive-in movie) few people ever discovered its enchantment, for much of the rough sand was strewn with sharp stones and pebbles. Once Steven had been dismayed to find the sand disturbed by a winding set of footprints and paw-prints that had run in every direction, telling the tale of some enthusiastic dog sniffing out every nook and cranny as its owner vainly called it back to his side. But, much to his relief, for he thought of this beach as his and his alone, dog-walker and dog never returned and in the fullness of time the prints were washed away and it was Steven's beach again.

Now the rhythmic swish of the sparkling water and the echo of the gravel scrunching underfoot gave everywhere a satisfying aloneness. Drinking in the peace, Steven leapt across the rock-pool and felt his heels sink into the crumbling sand while a handful of sea birds watched him warily from a distance, as always never giving their trust with ease, but waiting until their solitary visitor was safely ensconced in the little cove and his world before returning to their own.

Breathing more slowly now, he sat down on the rock-chair, slid a strap down from his shoulder and unzipped a black case. The guitar flashed momentarily in the bright morning sunlight. Steven rested it on his lap and began strumming idly on its strings, tuning in the guitar, listening with a keen ear to the sounds, and thinking. It had been a white lie when he told Tom he had to go help out at the talent contest. He wasn't due to meet Lance until much later. Although Lance had been blessed with a beautiful voice, he had never quite mastered the art of guitar playing and the song he planned to sing to impress Kathy Murray needed guitar accompaniment. But everything in life came easy to Steven Matheson and learning the guitar had been no exception. Yet he'd never _created_ a tune before and somehow he knew he never would again.

Steven stopped playing the more popular songs and slipped again into the tune that had been playing in his head for days. It was as if the melody had always been sleeping in his heart, waiting to be woken. Because this music was home. It was Mum and Dad. Every memory. Every yesterday. The notes streamed into the air, the intro a soft, gentle pace that became a quickening speed, and Steven was lost in them.

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Kathy Murray cringed. Summer Bay was a small town and small towns didn't like ripples in the river. (Kathy had once won $25 third prize for a sweet little poem called Ripples in the River and had never forgotten it.) And, although she worked at Summer Bay _Primary_ and therefore didn't answer to Donald Fisher, principal of Summer Bay _High_, small town politics dictated that small town principals were treated with the utmost respect.

Kathy may have been a high-flier, passing all her exams to become a fully-fledged infant school teacher before she was even twenty-one (the local newspaper had even run an article about how she got to be Summer Bay's youngest ever teacher) but she also had a younger sister.

One Jennifer Mary Murray, aged sixteen, going on twenty-six, (or, on alternate days, going on six) red-haired, fiery-tempered, freckle-faced (wow, you didn't _dare_ remind her of them though!) and with an opinion about everyone and everything.

"...see, there isn't _any_ talent here," she was finishing off saying to Fisher.

"There isn't...?" Donald Fisher, known as affectionately as "Flathead" to his students, knitted his brow. As far as he was aware, Summer Bay, just like every one of the coastal towns round these parts, had its fair quota of talent. No more and no less. And, okay, the talent show wasn't exactly the Logie nominations, it was being held simply to raise money for charity. But their visitor had spent a good deal of that morning watching many of the acts practising for the show tomorrow so perhaps her views should be taken on board.

Jenny sighed heavily. "Nope. I mean, the guys here, they're ooo-kaaay, but they're nothing to write home about, are they? Not that I'll be writing home, of course. I never do, and, anyway, the olds are on holiday so it'd be a waste of time, even if I ever did, which I don't, wouldn't it? But when Kath was at TAFE in Melbourne now the talent there, _heaps_ of good-looking guys..." puzzled when Fisher suddenly roared with laughter, Jenny finally paused for breath.

Kathy smiled, gritting her teeth. "G'day, Mr Fisher. Can I talk with my little sis for a min?"

"No problem, Miss Murray." Donald Fisher smiled back.

He liked Kathy Murray and had high hopes for her future. Kathy genuinely loved kids and, even outside of the extra curricular activities that already made up a teacher's life, would often give up her free time to be with them. The garden project had been an excellent idea. Shame either the school cat or one of the children had trampled it, but apparently, nothing daunted, Miss Murray had coerced friends and colleagues into fixing it up again. Usually shy and unassuming, Kathy Murray, by all accounts, was a force to be reckoned with when it came to fighting for her kids!

Kathy dragged her younger sister to a quiet corner of Summer Bay Town Hall and...well, okay, let's not exaggerate here.

Summer Bay's "town hall" was actually one of the Bay's oldest buildings, a long, draughty affair, with a roof that was prone to leaks, strange, unexpected slopes in the floor (generations of Summer Bay children had played the game of "running up the hills") and peculiarly narrow, high windows that never caught much sun, but liked to cast dismal shadows with what little they did, dating back almost to the time of the Bay's founding and built, but never used as, a courthouse, due to the incompetence of its architect, the low crime rate in the Bay, and Yabbie Creek having a far superior courthouse anyway. But the Summer Bayers were proud of their "town hall" for all that and always used it for important occasions when both the Bay's schools, the Diner and the open air beach arena were equally unavailable, and Kathy retreated to one of its corners and brought Jenny up to speed.

"Omigod!" Jenny had the grace to blush. "_He's_ a principal? I thought he was just a nice old guy."

But she recovered quickly from her _faux pas_ and happily dismissed the residents of Summer Bay as straw-chewing country bumpkins. "He seemed like one of the locals. You know, someone with not much else to do other than watch boring talent contests. Ah, well, he's not _your_ principal though, he's only top dog of Summer Bay High so no harm done, he doesn't count. But I've been thinking, Kath. How do you stand it here without any decent, good-looking guys? Don't you miss Robert?"

"No." Kathy firmly closed the subject of Robert. Robert may have been a Brad Pitt lookalike but he had also broken Kathy's heart. "Anyway, a guy doesn't _have_ to be good-looking to be a decent guy. And who said there _aren't_ any decent guys here in Summer Bay?"

"Like who...?" Jenny grinned with interest.

"I was talking about you," Kathy lied. "About Mike Langford."

"Gimme a break!" Jenny raised her eyes Heavenwards.

It was true Mike Langford, who never failed to look Jenny up whenever he heard she was in the Bay, was a decent guy and not bad looking, and they'd even been out on a couple of casual dates. But there was no spark. Both of them knew they'd never be anything more than friends. A sudden breeze at that moment drew Jenny's attention to the door. And to the tall, slim, dark-haired guy, so deeply tanned that he could have been from some hot European country, who'd just walked in and made Jenny's heart flip.

"Wow! Who's _that?" _She asked with interest.

Kathy glanced up briefly. "Dunno. Oh, no, wait, I think I do. One of the Fletcher foster kids. Frank Somebody-or-Other. I saw him picking Sally Keating, one of their other foster kids, up from school once."

Kathy frowned. Sally Keating was worrying her. She'd seemed even more troubled than usual lately and Kathy had a feeling it had to do with the Phillips brothers. She'd seen them in the playground yesterday, huddled in conversation and casting frequent glances at the little girl, who stood all alone, leaning her back and one raised foot against the wall, deep in thought, as though she was about to start one of her counting phases. Sally had become well known for her compulsive counting, and, like the staff usually did, Kathy went across to try and calm her.

"Hey, Sal," she smiled. "It sucks doing playground duty on your own. I really need someone to talk to. Would you mind coming round with me?"

Sally nodded uncertainly. She liked Miss Murray. Her own teacher was okay, but she had a tendency to shout and raised voices made Sally uneasy. They reminded her of when the Spanish people had been shouting and screaming, the day the terrible sea had taken her parents away forever.

Kathy gently took the child's hand, and, after racking her brains for something to say that would take Sally's mind off her anxieties, decided to chat about Reception's flower garden as they strolled, and was pleased when little Sally, although she didn't speak, smiled once or twice and seemed comfortable with her.

"G'day, Miss Murray!" Kane Phillips suddenly appeared at the teacher's elbow, making her jump. "Nice day, innit? Me and Scotty and Milko thought we might walk down by the sea later. I sure hope Milko don't fall in and drown 'cos he's talkin' too much." Kane sounded oddly like he was quoting something he'd been primed to remember, concentrating hard, gazing at the sky as if for inspiration and taking new breaths with each sentence.

For some reason, Sally blanched. Maybe the kid was feeling a bit crook with the heat.

"I'm sure he won't, Kane," Kathy said gently.

Kane was puzzling her lately. As well as gaining an imaginary friend called Milko (Kathy had overheard on the kids' grapevine that Sally Keating had an imaginary friend called Milko too, which was a strange coincidence, but the government _had_ lately been running a series of cartoon TV commercials in a campaign to persuade kids to drink more milk) he seemed to have acquired an imaginary dragon (Fred) and an imaginary dog (Deefa). The four all sat together (Reception Class desks were set in groups of four) and were the best of friends although, apparently, there were occasional problems such as when Fred accidentally fire-breathed on something or when Deefa wouldn't stop barking.

Kathy had covered the subject as part of her teacher training coursework and was aware that kids with imaginary friends tended to be lonely and sensitive only children. But Kane didn't fit this picture. Although he had always sat on his own on a desk-of-four it had been partly because, in the best Phillips tradition, he was inevitably disrupting lessons or picking on someone, and partly because he considered himself much older than his peers, preferring to hang out with Scotty and his mates.

But since the arrival of Kane's invisible friends a wonderful peace had reigned in Reception. Apart from needing to give Milko, Deefa and Fred his attention, which, fortunately, didn't impact too much on lessons, Kane had got on with his work and allowed the other kids to get on with theirs. It was as though the real child behind the tough guy facade had finally begun to emerge and Kathy was finding him to be a likeable and intelligent little boy. From her coursework, she knew that the best way to deal with imaginary friends was to simply accept them - they would disappear soon enough, as the child grew older and developed real friendships. Kathy was quite happy to go along with that. The longer Milko, Deefa and Fred stayed as her invisible students, the more chance there was of Kane behaving long enough to actually learn something!

She jumped again as Scott Phillips abruptly appeared at the _other_ side of herself and Sally and fell into step beside them.

"Ah, but Milko_ might _fall in the sea," he chipped in. "Ya know, if he wasn't listenin' to what me and Kane was sayin' 'cos he was too busy talkin'." Scotty gave Kane an approving wink. His kid bro had done pretty well to remember what Scotty had told him to say. Scotty was determined to make as much cash as he could out of the freak and she needed a timely reminder not to dob them in.

"Oh, I'm quite certain Kane will take good care of him, Scott," Kathy said lightly, bewildered by the Phillips brothers' concerns for Milko's welfare, especially as Scott was a deal too old and a deal too cynical to believe in invisible companions. "Milko will be perfectly safe," she added, deciding Scott was obviously preying on Kane's worries to tease him.

"These things happen," Scotty said mysteriously. "Folk cark it all the time. Ya turn ya back for a minute and..._whooosh! _They're gone!"

"I really don't think Milko will drown. He's probably an excellent swimmer." And Kathy smiled reassuringly at Kane, who, despite the fact he had introduced the idea himself, was looking rather alarmed at the prospect of Milko's sudden demise.

The bell rang out end of recess and Scott looked up at the school. He sighed and shook his head as though he pitied Kathy Murray's naive trust in humankind.

"Well, I guess, for all our sakes, we just better hope Milko don't keep talkin'. See yas around, guys!" He swaggered off, whistling.

"Yup...see yas around!" Copying Scotty, Kane too swaggered off with his hands in his pockets.

Kathy felt Sally's small hand clutching her own tightly. She couldn't shake off the weirdest feeling that they'd just been threatened.

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"One of the Fletcher foster kids?" Jenny's voice repeating her earlier answer broke into Kathy's reverie. "Isn't he a bit old to be a foster kid?"

"Mm. Maybe he was fostered late. Some reason," Kathy said vaguely, her mind still on Sally.

"What, like he stood waiting outside their door for a few years? Not that I'm complaining. Now he's_ exactly _the right age!" And Jenny looked with great interest at Frank Somebody-or-Other, who was exchanging paperwork with the country yokel who moonlighted as a principal.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Carly, Lynn and Lance. They'll reappear in later chapters:o)


	10. Chapter 10

**I've taken info from the main site and what ppl have told me and given the background stories of H&A's earliest characters. Hope you like it!**

**chapter 10**

"When we gonna stop, Scotty? Deefa needs some water."

Scott, who had been stomping down on the sand, furious at their constantly being turfed out of their miserable home, turned. "Who the ---- is Deefa?"

Despite his thirst and exhaustion and banging headache, Kane's face brightened. He'd been dying for just such an opportunity to introduce everyone. Wasn't very cool of Scotty to keep ignoring his invisible mates.

"He's my pet dog. Called Deefa 'cos it's short for D for dog, get it? And Fred's my pet dragon - wasn't meant to be stayin' but nodody'd have the guy 'cos of his fire-breathin' but Milko was..."

He stopped abruptly and watched bemused (fortunately, he was at a safe enough distance behind) as Scott turned purple and gave out a roar of fury.

"Will you ------- well stop doing that?" Scotty finally said.

"What?" Kane asked nervously.

"Actin' like Milko and everyone else ------- well exists. 'Cos it's p------ me off. And 'cos if you do it once more I got no choice, I'll have to ------- kill ya. You got that, drongo?"

"Ye-eh," Kane said, digging a random line in the wet sand with the heel of his trainers while he thought about it. Scotty was already spitting the dummy. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Mum always said when she'd decided to fight it out with Dad and was staggering all round the room, the booze giving her a false courage. It _prob'ly_ wasn't a good idea, but Kane _had_ promised Milko. "But I don't want Milko to drown," he sighed, saying what was on his mind at last. "He's a good mate. Can't we kinda...well, just push him in _a bit _if the dork lags?"

"No, we ------- well can't!"

"Sorry, mate. Tried my best." Kane shrugged at Milko, unwittingly spooking Scotty.

Kane could see Milko, clear as day, walking along the sand dunes with Fred, Deefa, Scotty and himself. Tall, skinny and pale, dressed all in white save for the hat (it was red again today) just as the weirdo newbie had described him. Except Milko had begun wearing his hats backwards. Kane wasn't sure if this was a fashion statement or whether Milko thought it made him look tough and therefore less likely to be pushed in the water. He had tried asking Scotty what he thought but Scotty said he was talking rubbish because nobody was there and whacked him for his trouble. Kane sighed at Milko, Deefa and Fred. It genuinely mystified him why his brother couldn't see anyone.

And it was that which protected him, if only he knew. Scott's natural reaction would have been to bash his kid bro and put an end to the Milko, Deefa and Fred nonsense there and then but, against his better judgement, he was beginning to freak. Scott was burning to bash someone and take out his anger with the world, but it was a bit nerve-racking when his usual punchbag was having whole conversations with people who didn't exist. But _someone_ had to get hurt today.

And someone would.

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Lynn fingered the silver crucifix around her neck and giggled at something Carly had just told her in a whisper (so Sally wouldn't hear) about boys. Lynn hadn't known _that _about boys and it was...rude. But Carly knew heaps. She was sooo sophisticated.

Lynn was flattered that the older girl had chosen her as a confidant and flattered that she assumed Lynn must have often giggled with her friends about something a boy had said or done or, at the very least, flirted innocently with a boy or two. But she had never done either. Unlike other girls her age, Lynn wasn't used to talking about the opposite sex.

Although she'd lived in the Home for over three years, she'd made no friends there, apart from timid little Sally and old Lizzie, who worked in the laundry and had worked there, so the rumour went, since the 1930s when, so the rumour machine churned again (especially in the dead of night when it was fun to scare some newbie) six kids who tried to break out were bricked up alive and Lizzie had been sworn to secrecy under pain of death herself if she ever dared reveal the horrible truth.

The other kids had thought Lynn strange and old-fashioned, going, as she did, to Mass every Sunday, decorating her personal wall space in the dorm with holy pictures and a cross, and keeping a Bible, prayer book, a pretty blue and white ornament of Mary holding baby Jesus and set of black plastic rosary beads on top of her locker.

Lynn, who'd bought the rosary beads at a religious stall at a garden fete, had originally thought they were called "Rosemary's Beads" and, as she didn't know what they were for and didn't want to lose face on her first day, told anyone who asked that they were named after a holy lady called Rosemary, who'd always worn a ballgown and long black necklace when she went out curing the sick, so now "Rosemary's Beads" were sold as lucky charms. (Until Lizzie, who was a devout Catholic, explained to her that they were _rosary_ beads and were meant for counting out prayers.)

Lynn had even considered becoming a nun. She thought nuns mysterious and interesting and reckoned she would look quite good in black, gliding through the polished corridors of the convent. And a convent was a great place to get away from people you didn't like (at the time Lynn was being picked on). But Lizzie had said, with an amused smile, that they weren't exactly the right reasons for taking her vows.

"What vows?" Lynn asked worriedly, which made Lizzie laugh till she cried.

So Lynn ditched the nun idea. She still found great comfort in her strong beliefs and she loved nothing more than to sit in the cool, quiet chapel, feeling like at last she belonged somewhere (and belonging was very important to Lynn, who had several times run away from her own home and nine brothers and sisters because she felt overlooked and under-loved). But she ditched the nun idea. Black wasn't really her colour anyway.

"That's a bit daggy," Carly remarked, noticing the crucifix.

"What?" Lynn asked innocently, though she knew perfectly well what.

Carly raised her sunnies above her nose and looked at Lynn shrewdly. "The cross. You're not into all that praying rubbish, are you? I hate religious freaks!"

"As if! It's just I've had this like...forever. Sheesh! As if _I'd_ be praying!" Lynn glanced guiltily at Sally while at the same time silently praying _Please, God, don't let Sal dob me in, please, God, don't let Sal dob me in._

Sally gasped and looked at Lynn wide-eyed. But she had been sitting cross-legged on the beach mat, her chin resting on Mrs Martha's newly-stitched-on head, watching Carly and Lynn wide-eyed for a while now. Ever since they had taken the mysterious package out of the beach bag and begun totally transforming themselves. Pippa and Tom didn't mind them wearing _some_ make-up but Carly and Lynn had really gone to town and looked much older.

"Good," Carly said, busy smoothing gel through her long curly hair. 'Cos religion is strictly for weirdos and wrinklies. Not for people like us who know how to have a good time. Hey, Sal," she added. "Look, there's Milko! Down there! He's having a great time kicking the water!"

Sally's heart twanged and she looked swiftly down to the shore only to have her hopes cruelly dashed. There _was_ no Milko. She sighed sadly. It had been silly to even think there would be. And, anyway, even if Milko _had_ escaped from his kidnappers, he'd have come over to talk, whether or not he was mates with the Phillips brothers. He knew Sally would never go near the terrible sea.

"Wow! That was an _awesome_ splash!" Carly sounded hugely impressed and Sally stared at her, wondering if Carly and Lynn were alright. Perhaps the heat was getting to them. It was strange how they both kept imagining they saw Milko when he wasn't there.

"You not gonna go join him?" Carly prompted.

Sally shook her head and gave Mrs Martha an extra tight hug. She had explained to the rag doll that this day out had only happened because Carly threw her in the bag and that Sally didn't like Mrs Martha at all. It was awful having to lie but Mrs Martha would be left behind when she ran away and, remembering how she had cried herself to sleep every night when yet another person left her, Sally didn't want Mrs Martha to be sad and miss her. But the fragile world was crumbling around them both. Poor Mrs Martha had had her head ripped off and had spent the night on a cold, hard window-sill. Sally's very, very best friend Milko had been kidnapped and Lynn, her nearly-best-friend, was behaving very oddly and nothing like the Lynn she knew anymore.

"Weird kid," Carly sighed, lowering her sunglasses Hollywood style.  
"Yeh. Weird," Lynn agreed.

"Anyways..." Carly drawled, and deciding she didn't really care if Sally were there or not, grinning at Lynn as she pulled the last two items out of the extra bag.

"Ripper!" Lynn grinned back, hoping Carly wouldn't suspect she'd never tried alcohol before, as Carly dug in the corkscrew and expertly twisted the cork so that it slid out of the neck of the bottle with a loud pop that made Sally jump. The little girl's mouth dropped open in horror as her eldest foster sister took a long gulp of the red wine.

"Are you going to sit there watching me all day?" Carly asked, unnerved by her stares.

The sarcasm went completely over Sally's head.

"I'm not quite sure, Carly," she answered politely, wondering why she was asking when Carly was the one who would decide how long they all stayed on the beach. "Will you be here all day, do you think?"

"Dill," Carly said, loud enough for Sally to hear, and vindictively enough for tears to spring to Sally's eyes, as she wiped the bottle and passed it on to Lynn.

She didn't really want to upset the kid but hurting people - and alcohol - was the only way Carly could get by. If she hurt people, nobody would ever know how much Carly herself was hurting inside. Simple, see?

She knew how much Lynn's faith meant to her and, even if she hadn't, the wounded expression on Lynn's face when Carly called her a religious freak would have been enough to tell her. But actually, and perhaps surprisingly, Carly didn't have any strong views on the subject.

She wished she could share Lynn's overwhelming conviction that there was something more (Carly had been sunbathing in the garden once and secretly overheard a deep conversation between Pippa and Lynn about God) but, as far as she was concerned, death was a great empty nothingness. Churches freaked her out, all that talk of death and dying and all those peculiar rituals. She had frozen to the spot when the first thing she saw as they entered the church for Mum's funeral was a gruesome statue of Christ with blood pouring from his heart.

Dad dug her in the ribs more forcibly than he needed to and hissed for her not to embarrass the whole family again (apparently Carly had embarrassed the whole family when she'd sobbed uncontrollably at the hospital after being told her mother had passed away) and Samantha, her twin sister, smirked. Never losing a chance to score points against Carly even at a time like this. And, you know, that was the part Carly would never understand. She wasn't mad, was she, not to understand?

Dad and Sam had each other, would always have each other, but Mum had just died, in agony after suffering a burst appendix, and still they thought it more important to keep up appearances and put on a united family front, as Dad called it. But the family had never been united.

The wealthy three-car Morrises, with their luxury home, company director father and mother who had nothing to do with her long days other than shop for things she didn't need, meet shallow, like-minded friends for lunch, become addicted to tranquillisers and have a seven-month-affair out of sheer, mind-numbing boredom; the Morrises with their holiday home in hot, sultry Malaysia, with their gardener, charlady and succession of au pairs when the twins were small, had always been ripped and torn.

Samantha, beautiful, clever Samantha, first born, first loved, most precious, was the favoured child while Carly, second born, second best, came screaming furiously into this world, healthy and strong, and Sam fighting with slow, tiny breaths for her small, pitiful scrap of life, and Carly breathing huge gulps of air into strong lungs and screaming lustily, and all tears and all eyes and all love for Sam, and Carly, who all but stole the life of her twin, wanting more, screaming with attention-seeking fury...

And, as they grew, Carly turned out to be always ungrateful, spoilt, wilful, a brat. The more adjectives heaped on Carly's head the more she felt she ought to live up to them. So the stormy years rolled by, with only a brief interlude of semi-calm when Mrs Morris, acting on her therapist's advice and for the good of her health, began making more of an effort with Carly in order to avoid further upsets (Sharon Morris being prone to headaches and dizzy spells when upset). George Morris disagreed with the therapist's "ridiculous advice" on the basis his daughter was "spoilt rotten", and Sam, being Daddy's girl, took his side, but for a handful of weeks Carly found she almost liked her mother. Until thunderclouds gathered anew.

News of the affair broke; Sharon Morris hastily ended the relationship in order to avoid a costly divorce and losing her luxury lifestyle, and the Morrises went back to their illusions of a happy, united family. And Carly was second best all over again.

The last few months before her mother died, Carly ran wild, shoplifting, joyriding, experimenting with soft drugs, drinking and boys, and, while Mum and Sam turned a blind eye, her father began locking her in her room and occasionally even dosing her with her mother's tranquillisers to stop her going out. The week before her mother's death, and for the second time in her life, Carly was rushed to hospital with alcohol poisoning and to have her stomach pumped. The night her mother died, and knowing it was too late now to ever recapture the vague dream of a mother's love, Carly screamed "murderer" at her father over and over and over, kicking at the locked bedroom door until the bottom half of the soft wooden panel gave way and she gashed her leg badly, but, despite the pain and the profuse pouring of blood, she kept right on kicking and screaming because it was all his fault, his petty revenge for the affair, that Mum didn't get to hospital in time.

Oh, but no more tears. Carly had made up her mind she would never cry again. For anyone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Finally managed to upload this chapter at last! And maybe I should have called it "Frank's Story"! ;o) I'll get back to Sally, Carly, Kane, Lance etc in later chapters.**

**chapter 11**

Frank Morgan dropped the car keys into Donald "Flathead" Fisher's outstretched palm and spoke with considerable importance.

"And if you'd just like to check out your car and sign for me, please, Mr Fisher..." He narrowly stopped himself from saying Donald. That'd be pushing his luck. But still it felt good to be giving instructions.

Frank rarely got a chance to _be_ someone. He had made himself out to be, especially to Steven, such a skilled mechanic that the staff at Dawson's Garage must have breathed a collective sigh of relief the moment he set foot in the door. Well, it was true he got on well with the guys who worked there and was well liked. But he had also earned himself the nickname of Trigger (a pun on Frank not being very quick off the mark) on his very first day, when one of the mechanics thought it would be funny to send him out for a "tub of elbow grease" and Frank had fallen for the joke hook, line and sinker.

A typical Saturday, he made tea for the other blokes, was sent out for their pies and sangers, did sweeping up or other menial jobs as and when required and was occasionally asked to do filing in the cramped, airless "office". Since its expansion of a few years ago, Dawson's had gained a newly-built annex which enclosed a state-of-the-art modern office, but this was used exclusively by bosses and administrative staff and, unless he happened to be delivering post or running an errand, the only office that Frank was ever allowed to grace was a tiny room, hidden away at the very back of the original garage, with a phone, chair, cluttered desk, and window that overlooked indoors.

Steven would have been very surprised too had he known that Frank's main duty was car washing. Although these days there was of course a mechanical car wash, Tommy, Bruce and Ray Dawson had started up Dawson's Garages as a car valeting service many years ago and they prided themselves on still providing hand car washes for any old-fashioned customers who believed a mechanical car wash never did get a car quite as gleaming.

_Dawson's - Where the Customer Matters _was the slogan advertised on posters and coasters and the end of the TV commercial when a very annoying TV family finally drove off with their bratty-turned-angelic kids. Yeh, well, fine, bully for the customer. Weekends, it was Frank who got the task of cleaning their bloody cars!

Okay, now and again he got to do some very basic tinkering on a car engine and a few times, when there was no one else, he'd been asked to ring a customer. Never having been through college themselves and belonging to a far earlier generation, the Dawsons fondly believed all college students would have excellent telephone manners and so they never got to hear Frank's laid back conversations like _"G'day, mate! If you wanna get your butt down here, your car's waiting." _as he swung back on his chair, feet on the desk, twirling a pencil round his fingers.

A couple of times he had swung so far back that he actually fell off the chair but, fortunately, had just finished each call before crashing ignobly to the ground and, perhaps even more fortunately, because the Dawson brothers were constantly stressing to their employees the importance of "professionalism", no customer had yet thought his very informal phone calls worth commenting on.

Because Frank would crash and die if he lost his Saturday job. Apart from a dream, it was all he had left now to hold his head up high.

He hadn't found the courage to tell anyone yet, but he was hanging by a thread to life as a student. It had even been tactfully suggested that he try a less academic career. Jeez, though, he couldn't let Pip and Tom down! Knowing their eldest kid lacked the old grey matter, his foster parents were proud as punch the day he'd got the letter telling him his application for a place at TAFE had been successful. Even Steven had punched him on the arm and said, _"Congrats, mate!" _It was one helluva moment for Frank. The first time he'd felt he was going to be _someone_ since...

Eight. It was old enough to know what to do. Frank's Dad was downstairs making out with a new chick. Jeez, he was gonna be stoked when he found out what Frank had done!

Frank grinned to himself as he pulled open the bottom drawer of the chest, sucking in a breath when he saw the rolls of banknotes. They never went without, him and Dad. There was always plenty of cash in the Morgan home. Once they'd even played a mad game of "catch the bankroll" - it had to touch the ceiling to count - and one of Dad's girlfriends had found two rolls, $2000 dollars in each, that they hadn't even missed, under the bed a week or so later.

Tanya, Dad's girlfriend, had been real impressed and had been hugging Dad and saying over and over in a silly sing-song voice_ "Frankie, Frankie, Frankie, I can't believe you didn't even notice it was gone, gone, gone" _which got on Frank's nerves after a bit, but she'd been drinking and anyway Frank thought it was heaps cool, the way his Dad just smiled like it was no big deal and disentangled her arms from his lipstick-stained neck.

Dad always had his pick of chicks. That was something else money did for you, Frank thought, as he rummaged his way past banknotes, under neatly-folded towels, face flannels and sachets of shampoo and shower gel - Dad's new girlfriend liked to keep things tidy - until his fingers touched the cold steel he'd been searching for.

He drew out the sawn-off shotgun, his heart pumping nineteen to the dozen, and an electric shock of anticipation running through his whole body. Yessir, he was gonna be just like his Dad Frankie Morgan and get folks' respect! No b---s---! All he had to do now was pull this bank job. Frank put the gun in his school sports bag and fastened it up.

You know, some days will stay in your memory forever. And yet, strangely, not the whole of the day, not even all the most important parts, but often random moments that don't even matter.

So Frank remembered getting the gun. Even what was running through his mind when he was looking for it. But not crashing into Mrs Marshall, an elderly neighbour. Years later, when he was reading about the case, he learnt he'd been running and had winded her and she'd said, _"Hey, where's the fire?" _and he'd replied, _"My Dad gave me money to buy lollies." _

He remembered seeing his shadow cast on the wall as he turned into the High Street and he remembered a woman wearing a green jacket and black trousers sighing with impatience as she waited to cross at the lights. He remembered a cop car pulling up just before he reached the bank and how he was convinced he'd been rumbled but it turned out one of the cops was only jumping out to buy a couple of burgers. He could even recollect that the cop who bought the burgers called his mate Tony and said something about fries and tomato relish.

But try as he might Frank had no recollection of going into the bank and yelling, as apparently he'd yelled, _"Everyone freeze!" _

Though he could still recall, and describe in minute detail if it were ever required of him to do so, a forgotten black brolly leaning against the bank counter.

Maybe because the brolly was what he fixed on when first there was someone laughing, then a bang and blinding flash of light and screaming, and he wouldn't look, he couldn't look, sick with fear because the gun he hadn't expected to go off might have killed someone.

_God, he was so scared. The gun had dropped by his foot and he was frightened it might go off again and his hand was hot and the pit of his stomach was churning and he was sure he was gonna be sick and he didn't wanna chuck up in front of all these people he knew were staring down at him. Worst of all, he began to cry. Not even a little bit either, but great shuddering sobs and tears that ran with snot down his nose._

"I want my Dad," he sobbed. "You gotta get my Dad."

But nobody did. Oh, they were real nice to him at the cop station. They asked him his favourite milkshake and when he said strawberry they got him one and even some chocolate biscuits, though he was too sick to eat them. They kept saying it wasn't his fault and he wasn't in trouble but Frank knew he was or his Dad would've been there by now.

Frank told them firmly, when they started asking about her, that he DIDN'T want his Mum there. His Dad was the greatest, but his Mum was an alko who had walked out on his Dad, for another guy she met at a drying out clinic, when Frank was just a bub.

She was always going to drying out clinics and then having parties and drinking herself stupid soon as she got out, Frank said disdainfully. She visited now and again, always with the alko boyfriend, but each time she was blotto and it scared him because she always yelled and sometimes, when Dad wasn't looking, she smacked him. Last time she'd gone to make them all a cup of tea but the water splashed, nearly scalding him, and Frank's Dad, Frank told them proudly, threw her out in the street and punched and kicked Mum's drunken boyfriend because he tried to argue. But Frank's Dad, now _he_ could hold _his_ liquor, Frank said. He never worried when Dad came home blotto.

The people asking the questions sure must have been impressed because they looked at each other without saying anything, the cop who'd ordered the milkshake and the nice lady with the curly blonde hair and red lipstick, who sat in the chair opposite drinking coffee out of a paper cup. The lady put the cup down on the little coffee table, leaned forward and said, "Does your Dad go out drinking a lot, Francis?"

He pulled a face because nobody but _nobody_ ever called him Francis and answered, "Yeh, heaps. But I don't ever get scared 'cos he makes sure everywhere's locked up and the alarm's on and I know I'm _never_ to answer the door. When's my Dad gonna get here?"

But it was very, very late before Frank's Dad arrived. Just before they pulled down the blinds in the little office where they took him to after a middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform gently woke him from a deep sleep, he could see that the moon and stars had begun to glimmer in a pool-black sky.

Frank's head was fuzzy from a disjointed dream and he was trying to figure where he was. Then he remembered. It wasn't the cop station anymore. He had been driven a long, long way, stopping only for lunch and breaks, to a red-brick building with nursery rhyme characters on frosted windows, where he was given sandwiches and a hot milky drink and told it might be best if he tried to sleep for a while.

Although the sun was shining brightly and he could hear very young kids playing a noisy game in a nearby room, he was exhausted from the long journey and long day and had fallen asleep the moment he crawled between the crisp white sheets, waking in what seemed like a hospital ward to the hushed tones of night.

Seeing his father standing there flanked by two cops he flung himself at him. "I didn't tell 'em, Dad, I didn't tell 'em, I swear!"

"I know, mate, I know. It's okay." Frankie Morgan's voice cracked as he ruffled Frank's hair. Frankie knew he was going down for a long, long time and, for all his faults, he did, in his own way, love the son who hero-worshipped him so much that he'd even kept newspaper clippings of his criminal activities pasted in a large red scrapbook.

Frankie (named Franco after his Italian immigrant grandfather by his half-Italian mother, but preferring Frankie and, in turn, choosing the English version of the name for his son) wasn't at heart an evil man, but he was quick-tempered and workshy and had slipped into crime after the deaths of his hard-working parents and subsequent failure of the family business.

Dark and handsome, he had never had any problems getting the girls, but a ready supply of cash and element of danger had made him even more attractive. Frank had been the result of one of those liaisons and, despite Paula's heavy drinking, the only good thing to ever come out of his life. And in just a few hours Frank would be taken to the foster home that had been arranged for him and Frankie to await serious charges on a series of armed robberies. These last few minutes together were precious.

"Look, son, fair and square, I done the crime, I gotta do the time. They're gonna take you somewhere you'll be looked after, fostered it's called, by some nice people..."

Frank clung desperately to his father. "Nooo! I'm not leavin' you, Dad, and the pigs can't make me! I'll kill 'em first!" Frank backed up his claim by viciously kicking the nearest police officer's ankle.

Frankie gave an apologetic smile. These two cops had hearts and families of their own and had pulled strings they should never have pulled to make this unscheduled fleeting visit. If it ever came out, their careers would be in tatters and the media would chew them up and spit them out.  
"Frank. Son, listen to what I say. That's loser talk and I don't want you being no loser. I want you to do me proud like you always done. I want folk to say "Yeh, Frank Morgan, _he_ was never a loser, never a crim like his old man." You stay outta trouble and you do what these foster people say. Can you promise you'll do that for me?"

Frank nodded, tears raining down his cheeks. Over his head, one of the cops coughed and tapped his watch.

"I gotta go," Frankie said, his voice thick with his own tears. "You make sure you always remember, Frank, you walk tall 'cos I'm proud of you. Love you, son." He gave him a last tight hug and kissed the top of his head and the cuffs were clicked back into place.

Frank clenched his small fists with helpless rage, sobbing as his father was led away, but not caring who saw him cry now. He'd do his Dad proud like he promised, he would, he would.

It wasn't easy. Frank had come a long, long way since his first night under the Fletcher's roof when he'd smashed every single plate he could lay his hands on. Dad had told him to do what the foster people said and, okay, they hadn't told him to smash the plates. But, he justified his actions to himself, they hadn't told him he _couldn't_ smash the plates either. He sat in the middle of the broken crockery and spoilt food, confused and angry and missing his Dad so much, and waited for them to do their block. But nothing happened.

The mess was cleared up, supper was dished out again, and when Frank, realising how hungry he was, got up and sat back in his chair, Pippa served up some more casserole. It was like they understood it was nothing 'gainst them, but sometimes a guy had so many mixed-up feelings and no words to explain.

It took Frank quite a while longer to learn that when he behaved badly he'd be totally ignored and when he didn't he got their undivided attention, but, by the time Steven, Carly, Lynn and Sally had joined the family, he was considered the most responsible of the Fletcher kids. He never shared with his foster brother and sisters that in the early days he'd done stuff like thrown bricks at the windows or that he once put a fish down the back of the couch to stink the place out or that some days he'd argued with Tom and Pippa almost non-stop or that he'd called his foster parents names he didn't even want to remember now. Nope, he was Frank, the eldest, the one everyone looked up to. Sure, he was no A-student but no one minded and Frank was Tom's right-hand man whenever there was any practical work to be done.

The day he received the TAFE letter was long before Lynn and Sally joined the Fletcher clan so there was only Pippa, Tom, Steven and Carly to wait with baited breath for Frank to tear open the envelope.

"I'm in," he whispered, his hands shaking as held the letter and feeling choked when he saw everyone's obvious delight. Steven punched his arm and Carly yelled "Whooo-hooo!" and then, remembering she and Frank were still in the middle of an who-drank-all-the-OJ argument, tried to pretend she just happened to be singing.

But sadly for Frank the grades he'd hoped for in vain in his school days didn't suddenly dust themselves down and lean comfortably against his college work. The lectures went so far over his head that in the end he stopped listening and then he stopped bothering to turn up for them. His books were covered in notes that didn't make sense and then idle doodles and finally blank sheets of paper. Frank knew his college days were numbered; it was just a matter of who was going to crack first, him or the education authorities.

But TAFE wasn't all bad. He'd made some good mates there, the chicks liked him and the social scene rocked. And his dream of being a rock star had been born at TAFE too.

Frank had been chilling in the bar when a band a few of the guys had recently started up announced one of their guitarists had had to drop out for personal reasons and asked could anyone help out. A huge music fan, he stepped up without thinking too much about it. Although he played as though he'd been jamming with the group all his life, nobody was more stunned than Frank at the enthusiastic reception and by the audience yelling his name for an encore.

"Jeez, mate, you can ------- _play!" _Dez, the lead singer, said, the mic picking up his comment and echoing it round the crowded bar to join the whistling and roaring that greeted the end of Frank's guitar solo. It was a Friday, the bar's most popular night, and many of the students had been up on their feet and singing the chorus along with him.

Frank grinned, high on the adrenaline of applause, breathless with exhaustion, sweeping back his black hair to wipe beads of sweat off his forehead. _Layla _may have been an ambitious choice for a guitar solo but Frank had played it often enough before; it was one of his Dad's favourites. While other kids were reciting nursery rhymes, he had grown up listening to solid rock and could have told you the entire words to songs by Queen or Meatloaf.

But though he'd always enjoyed music, ever since when he was two or three and his Dad had pulled him on his lap to show him how to strum guitar, he hadn't realised exactly how good he was. The only success Frank had ever known in his life before was, thanks to Tom's patient tutoring, passing his driving test, but now Frank "Trigger" Morgan, failed TAFE student, failed bank robber, failed mechanic intended to be _somebody_. Somebody who'd make his Dad and Pippa and Tom proud.

His first wages from Dawson's Garage had immediately gone on paying a deposit to secure his own guitar, which he was still paying for in instalments. Steven knew exactly how much Frank's dreams meant to him. He had listened to Frank practising songs in their room often enough. But it still hadn't stopped him taking the guitar. Well, it should have. It really should have.

Frank's thoughts were grim as he entered Summer Bay Town Hall. He noticed the curvy, pretty girl talking to Kathy Murray looking across at him and he was flattered. Yup, Frank was definitely interested and he was a free agent now Lisa had dumped him. But he had other things on his mind. Things that needed sorting first.

Tommy Dawson had asked him - there being no one else available - to deliver Fisher's car and Frank had been stoked when some very impressed mates stopped him for a chat. Until one of them mentioned he'd seen Steven heading for the beach. Carrying a guitar.

And a love of good music wasn't the only thing that Frank had inherited from Frankie Morgan. He'd also inherited his father's violent temper.


	12. Chapter 12

**chapter 12**

Golden glints of sunlight sparkled in the dregs of red wine left in the bottle. Carly spluttered with drunken laughter as through the bottom of the glass she viewed the blurred image of Lynn vainly trying to walk straight until she finally slipped backwards, where she remained for a long, long time, sprawled and helpless, in the sand. Carly carried on laughing, hardly aware of where she was or what was going on anymore, only aware of such an overwhelming sadness sweeping over her that she knew if she didn't laugh, she'd cry.

After a while Lynn managed to elbow herself upwards and, half sitting, half leaning, looking like she was imitating some puppet doll, rocked unsteadily back and forth, smiling a broad smile at Carly, her eyes blank. And then she turned her head and was promptly sick.

"Oh, yuck!" Carly said in disgust. Lynn retched, heaved and was sick again.

Carly's head was spinning in the heat of the sun. Didn't matter. Her life was spinning anyway. Always had been.

_"Carly..." _A scared little voice on the verge of tears came from somewhere far, far away.

Perhaps it was Carly's voice from long ago.

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The door burst open with brute force and her father gripped both her arms and shook her violently, his angry face so close to hers that the breath of his voice seared with red-hot hate against her skin. "Where did we go wrong? Why can't you be like Sammy?"

This was the man who was meant to love her. This was the man who, when she was very young, was meant to bathe her cuts when she fell, to comfort her when she was afraid, to scoop her up in his arms and point out the birds in the trees and the funny shapes in the clouds. Like he had done with Sam.

Sam, slim, delicate pretty Sam, who was standing outside the room, with her hands pressed against her ears, with tiny tears raining down her beautiful flawless face, begging, "Oh, make her stop, Daddy, please, please, Daddy, can't you make her stop? It's scaring me!"

This was the family that was meant to love her. This was the family that was meant to nurture her, be proud of her triumphs, console her when she failed, who were meant to laugh with her and cry with her. _Can't you see? Can't you see how easy it is? Tell me you care. Just once, and I'll never, ever ask either of you to say it again. Please tell me, just once, and I promise, I swear, I'll never, ever ask you to say it again, I promise, I swear..._

_Wny can't she find these words, words almost without substance, words that are little more than vague feelings she can't reach, yet that are churning deep inside her soul? Why can't she say what she wants to say? _

"Murderer!" Carly screams hoarsely instead, struggling to free herself, kicking and biting, but he's so much stronger. "Murderer, murderer, murderer!"

"You're every bit as insane as your mother was!" He rasps, pushing her back, and Sam, delicate, pretty Sam, is still screaming, small sobbing screams, soft and polite and almost ladylike, not clumsy and rough like her twin's furious, emotion-charged outbursts.

_No! No, please, don't do this again, don't...Tell me you care, just once, and I'll never...I promise, I swear..._ But he grabs her by her hair and he roughly tilts her head back, cricking her neck so that she shudders with the sudden pain; and his hand presses hard against her mouth until, finally, the tablet is forced off her tongue and slides down her throat though she gags and coughs and bites and kicks, angry and helpless, humiliated and lost. And as she falls, weakened now with the overpowering urge to sleep, the last thing she sees is the contempt and disgust in her father's eyes.

This is the man who is meant to love her.

_"Carly, I'm scared..." _says the small, tearful voice.

It wasn't the first time George Morris had dealt with his daughter's "psychosis" by sedating her with her mother's prescription tranquillisers. But this time it was how the police and social worker, alerted by a passer-by's concerns on overhearing the screams, found her, and they who arranged for Carly to be fostered. Another family, another town, another time, another life.

_"Carly, oh, Carly..." _says the faraway voice.

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"No need. We trust you." Pippa said calmly. "You're fifteen and old enough to be trusted."

Carly looked from Pippa to Tom and then at the mahogany pendulum clock on the wall as though the mahogany pendulum clock on the wall were the fourth person involved in this conversation and its opinion now anticipated. She had psyched herself up for a row. She had drawn breath to scream _I'm not a ------- kid so stop treating me like one! _and been prepared for their shocked, disgusted, middle-class expressions when she called them a couple of do-gooding jerks and their foster home a bloody hovel. And who, when she got some weed tonight, she would take a perverse pleasure in shocking even more next time by rolling a joint in front of them. _See what you do then, see how far I can push you. See how you'll never know me and see if I care._

"So...you don't wanna ring Adele's Mum to check I'll be there and her olds'll be there too?"

Tom, unaware there was a large zig-zag of white paint on his nose, looked down from the step ladder where he'd been busily stroking the roller brush across the ceiling. "This isn't a prison, Carl, and you're not out on parole. Just make sure you're back for the time we said or we'll worry. Any probs with calling a cab, ring me and I'll pick you up. And, by the way, you look a million dollars."

"Have a good time, sis!" Steven grinned, a little sheepishly, as he held the old, rickety wooden ladder steady, because he and Carly had had a minor blue earlier over Steven's channel hopping with the remote.

"Yeh, knock 'em dead!" Frank added, tearing himself away for a precious moment from gazing with justifiable pride at his handiwork of the smoothly-painted pale blue door, and watching out warily in case Pippa came close to accidentally kicking over the paint tin again.

"Watch you don't get paint on yourself, sweetheart. Enjoy the party and take care," Pippa said, leaning carefully forward to give her a quick peck on the cheek, keeping her elbows pressed against her chest because her hands and arms and face and hair were splattered with pale blue paint, Pippa being one of these people, like Frank said cheekily but making them all laugh, who could never decorate anywhere without feeling the need to decorate themselves as well.

The night air hit Carly like a cold kiss and yellow lamplight streaked through the lullaby music of gently falling rain. She hadn't had had a drink and she wasn't high, yet, strangely, the ground was rocking and blurry and Carly, yes, Carly Louisa Morris, who'd made up her mind never to cry again, realised in shock that her own tears were responsible.

She didn't know why she cried. And she couldn't understand why when, although at Adele's birthday party some of the partygoers sneaked off into the garden to smoke pot, while Adele's parents, who, despite the giveaway sickly sweet scent, still naively believed they were keeping an eye on things, ensured Adele would cringe with embarrassment for a year or more by policing the drinks and turning down the music, she refused an invitation to join them. Nor did she go with her original plan to leave Adele's birthday party early and seek out Jason, a dealer she knew slightly who she'd heard liked her, to sell her body for whatever he had. For some reason she never fathomed, she rang for a cab to get her home on time, even early, and she lay awake for hours, staring into the darkness, wondering who she really was.

_"Carly, please, Carly, I'm so scared..." _pleaded the small, lost voice.

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Pete and Spence weren't going to turn up. And Carly knew perfectly well that they had never intended to, even if Lynn didn't. She had always known that the small group of uni friends that she and Lynn had lately begun tagging on after saw them as nothing more than kids trying desperately hard to act older. They were a standing joke with the gang, who kept trying to shake them off without hurting their feelings. Pete was twenty, Spencer twenty-one. Nice, normal guys. But what if they hadn't been? She was playing with fire and if Carly wanted to risk playing with fire, well then fine, that was Carly's problem.

"But it's not just about you anymore. You've two little sisters to look out for now," the thought suddenly chided her, whooshing through her head like an ice cold breeze. If _only _she could cut through this fog of alcohol that clouded everything around her...

Sheltered in the Home, having very few friends and wrapped up in her religious beliefs of archangels and Heavenly messages, Lynn was touchingly innocent. Carly had been both amused and shocked to learn that she truly believed a girl could get pregnant just from sleeping with a guy. Nothing had to happen, Lynn explained gravely to Sally (Lynn, for some unknown reason, had taken it upon herself on this particular day to teach Sally the "facts of life" or, at least, Lynn's version of them) you could lie at opposite ends of the bed, Lynn said, and not even touch, but if you both fell asleep, then the girl would wake up pregnant.

Carly had of course educated Lynn a great deal since. But the younger girl still often took what people said at face value. It had been obvious to Carly that Pete was joking when he said that he and Spencer (Lynn blushed crimson whenever Spencer spoke to her) and Carly and Lynn should all meet up. He'd laughed and flicked back Carly's hair like he might have teased his kid sister about freckles or a poster of some heartthrob, and his girlfriend had smiled too. He'd told Carly all about his fourteen-year-old sister, Claire. How she wanted to grow up fast but what was the rush? Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, they were funny ages, Pete said. One day Claire might think she was madly in love with someone and the next day she might hate him. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, they were funny ages for boys too. That was why it was good to be with friends your own age. Carly knew that, very, very gently, Pete was telling her they were far too young to hang round with them.

But Lynn had talked about nothing else but their "dates" when they got back home. And Carly, being Carly, thought it would be funny if she let her go on believing it. Anyway, if they got all done up and distracted Sally with toys who knew what guys they might meet on the beach today? But, oh, Carly, being Carly, she had to get drunk, didn't she? And not content with getting drunk herself, she had to get Lynn drunk too!

Lynn, who now gave a strange little moan then flopped and lay deathly still.

_"Carly...Carly, I'm scared..." _The small faraway voice whimpered again.

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"See?" Scotty said.

Kane nodded grimly. He glanced at Milko, Deefa and Fred. They looked as unhappy about the idea as he was. "Yeh, _I_ got it," he sighed. "But the guys think maybe we..."

"---- the bloody hallucinations, loon! Jeez, you oughta be locked up!" Scott said, kicking him over, but, still wary of the hallucinations, without as much violence as he normally used.

Kane was used to such treatment. He picked himself up and dusted off the gritty sand without comment.

"Give it your best shot," Scotty continued, as if nothing had interrupted them.

Kane cocked his head to one side and poked sand out of his ear, looking at the world, and in particular his intended target, sky west and crooked. "I don't think I'll hit 'em, Scotty. I reckon they're gonna be heaps too fast."

"Well, ------- well try, drongo!"

There was no help for it. When Scotty spoke, you did what he said or you got a bashing and then, after the bashing, you had to do what he said in the first place. With a deep sigh, Kane slowly took the pebbles Scott had told him to collect out of his pocket, and then hesitated. With a flapping and noisy fluttering of wings, a fourth sea bird had landed on the small rock isolated in the sea. Except this one didn't choose to stare out in the same direction as its three companions who stood silently watching something only they three saw out on the distant horizon. Instead it perched on the very edge of the rock and, cawing mournfully, stared back at Kane through beady, soulful eyes.

"Quick! Get the b----r!" Scott hissed in his kid brother's ear.

Jeez, it was alright for Scotty, but it actually sounded like the b----r out on the rock was crying! Reluctantly, Kane hurled the stone, making sure that it splashed harmlessly into the water and scattered the flock.

"You missed on purpose!" Scotty admonished, swiping him across the head.

"I did ----! Deefa barked and put me off!" Kane lied. But his heart was thudding, half with fear, half with excitement at a new discovery. Throwing the stones had made him feel better. Like he could unleash all his anger at the world and his father if he took the hurt out on someone or something else.

"Ssh!" Scotty ordered suddenly, with a warning thump. "Look!" He added, grinning, as a figure appeared walking towards them.

Her throat was parched but Sally thought it best if she kept on talking to reassure Mrs Martha. Not to reassure her _too much _of course because, as she'd already explained to the rag doll, she wouldn't be able to stay with her forever. So Sally walked along, silver tears streaming down her cheeks and falling off the end of her chin, head down, watching her feet trudge along so that she didn't have to look at the terrible sea, keeping up her muttered commentary - or she might have had to count to a million so they'd feel safe and _that_, Sally estimated, would take about a hundred years and they'd both be very, very tired by the end of it.

"Now I know it was very, very frightening for you when Lynn passed out and when Carly still didn't hear me though I'd said her name heaps of times before but it's really no use feeling sorry for ourselves just because we're all alone in the world (_Sally gave a small hiccupy sob_). It's the way it is, Mrs Martha, and if you don't like it, my dear, well I'm afraid tears aren't going to help either of us so I think you'd better stop them at once. _(This was a little unfair as Mrs Martha wasn't the one crying.) _Lots of people run away, you know, and we - I mean, I - have been meaning to for a long time so..."

With the oddest feeling that someone was watching her, Sally looked up and, to her horror, saw that just ahead the Phillips brothers were waiting for her, grinning ominously, each of them clutching a handful of stones...

Oh, but someone else was there too! _Milko! _It really _was_ Milko, gazing out to sea, with his hands in his pockets and wearing his very best red hat! Little Sally felt as though her heart were about to burst with joy.

"Milko! Milko!" She shouted breathlessly.  
And then something terrible happened. Something so heartbreaking that I wish I didn't have to tell you but this is Sally's story and not mine. Milko turned and he looked straight at Sally.

"Rack off!" He spat at her, his face contorted with hate.


	13. Chapter 13

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: Anonymous, thanks for your review. I didn't watch H&A's first few years so all my information has come from the characters' biographies and from asking questions on the "Sally" thread on the Back to the Bay website. You're probably right about Steven being fostered by the Fletchers AFTER Sally and Lynn, but the information I was given at the time seemed to indicate that Sally and Lynn were the last to be fostered and, unfortunately, that's what I went with. Hope it hasn't spoilt the story too much for you - _I_ can't stand inaccuracies either!

**chapter 13**

Now if I tell you that Pippa and Tom Fletcher weren't perfect I imagine you may be shocked. It might even seem as though I'm breaking some golden rule and whispering words I should never dare whisper. But Tom and Pippa _weren't_ perfect. They were human and, like all of us, they had doubts and fears and made mistakes. And, you know, I think perhaps that's what made them so loved as foster parents. I'll let you into a little secret now and take you to a scene you will rarely see.

It was the day Carly and Lynn took Sally with them to the beach. Frank had already gone to work and the girls had left too, setting off early, weighed down with bags and sun creams. Steven was the last to leave, running downstairs and barely popping his head round the corner to yell a quick _"Catch ya later!"_ before the door banged shut.

"I swear he's got Frank's guitar, Pip!" Tom said, hastily whipping the tea towel off his shoulder - Tom had been drying off a couple of dishes that Carly and Lynn had been in too much of a hurry to finish but had become distracted by a slightly leaking pipe under the sink - and racing after him.

But it was too late. Steven hadn't been awarded sportsman of the year at his previous school for nothing and he had no intention of waiting around to be challenged.

Tom sighed. It had caused a huge row last time Steven had used Frank's guitar without permission - though at least last time Steven hadn't decided it had been cooped up in their bedroom long enough and needed fresh air. But Tom could sympathise with both his foster sons. Steven was very much in the wrong to take the guitar without asking Frank but Steven enjoyed music too and Frank was so fiercely protective of the guitar that Carly teased him he thought it was a real person. He could call it Milky, seeing as Sally had Milko, Carly added, and Milky, Milko, Frank and Sally could be all be bezzie mates...seeing Frank's face, Carly wisely decided to call a halt to her teasing and picked up a magazine to flick through instead.

Though he tried hard to control it, Frank had a hot temper and, although he was always genuinely sorry afterwards, the damage was already done. Usually it was Steven or Carly who got the tongue lashing or were the reason for Frank smashing his fist against the wall - one time Carly had deliberately riled Frank so much that he'd shaken her, bringing back such terrible memories of her father that Carly had raided the Fletcher's drinks cabinet and downed three large cans of lager before Tom found her and brought her, shouting and swearing, back home. But none of the Fletchers had been spared Frank's fury. Even little Sally, to her terror, had once been yelled at to get out of the way as Frank stormed past her up the stairs and crashed his bedroom door behind him.

But, after that, Frank really did make a superhuman effort to keep his anger in check and, taking Pippa's advice, would often walk away and count slowly to twenty whenever he felt the red mist of rage descending on him. Never again did he want to live with the guilt of seeing Sally scuttle off in fear whenever she saw him. It had only been very recently that the kid had come to trust him once more and Frank was determined to never lose that trust again.

One thing that did always have a calming effect on Frank however was music and he poured his heart and soul into his dream of being a rock star.

Proud of being good at something for once in his life, he'd tried to teach the rest of the family to play guitar, but Carly had been too impatient, Lynn too nervous and Sally had just blushed and whispered she had to go see Milko and it was very important when Frank, worried she might feel left out - Frank's red hot temper was softened by a very kind heart - offered to show her some basic notes. But Steven, although he lacked Frank's natural talent, picked it up quickly like Steven did with everything he learnt.

There had even been a few evenings when Frank had managed to get everyone singing - well, everyone except Sally who was far too shy. (Presumably Milko was singing along too as Sally had been seen, when she thought no one was looking, nodding her head, tapping her foot and whispering to someone invisible.) Tom joked that maybe he should get a fiddle and they could all dance a jig every night but, as only Pippa was old enough to remember the _Litttle House on the Prairie_ TV series from their childhood, only Pippa smiled and then, catching Tom's eye, they had fallen into helpless fits of laughter as they tried to picture the Fletcher family of Summer Bay dancing a jig á la the Ingles of Walnut Grove. Their four eldest kids stared at them in baffled amusement and Sally shrugged her shoulders at Milko. But what pleased Tom and Pippa most was the rare sight of Frank and Steven grinning at each other.

Frank and Steven were chalk and cheese but their shared love of music could be what would finally brought them together. But, if Frank let his temper get the better of him when he learnt Steven had taken his precious guitar, music might be what drove them apart forever.

Tom sighed again at the empty driveway that led down to the caravan site and was startled when he heard a small sob behind him. He turned to see his wife standing by the kitchen table, her shoulders hunched and obviously crying.

"Pippa...?" Tom Fletcher was a man of few words when it came to emotions and his natural reticence had driven away many a girlfriend in his younger days. He drew the only woman he had ever truly loved into a hug and stroked her hair, waiting till Pippa herself was ready to talk.

At last Pippa drew breath and wiped the corners of her eyes. "It's silly..."

She sniffed and gave a watery smile, but didn't elaborate so, guessing correctly that this was about one of the kids, Tom winked and kissed her, flicked on the kettle and busied himself rattling cups and spoons and plates.

Mugs of strong tea and the old brown teapot that had once belonged to Pippa's grandmother and the tartan-patterned biscuit tin that had once belonged to Pippa's grandmother too, filled with assorted biscuits and plenty of them. Talk Time, Pippa and Tom always called it. A rare quiet time when all the kids were out, when they could brainstorm each other on how everyone was doing or simply let off steam. Because, although there was back-up from social workers if needed, like all parents, they were very much on their own in making decisions and judging what was right or wrong for their kids. No child ever breezed through this world yet, fostered or otherwise, packaged and perfect, but the kids who came to the Fletchers had suffered more trauma than most.

Guiding them through their problems was far from easy and I'd be lying if I led you to believe that tea was the only ever drink that soothed Tom and Pippa's frayed nerves. There were a few times when something far stronger was poured, when fostering was an exhausting and thankless task, when they wept openly in each other's arms. But the downtime, as people would call it today, was a much needed break that gave both the strength to go on and this, together with a sense of humour, probably the only way they were able to keep their sanity.

"It's everything. It's nothing. It's me being over-dramatic. Frank's so responsible nowadays, but his temper, I still worry it's going to get the better of him and he'll really hurt someone. And I KNOW Steven had something to do with trashing Sally's room, don't ask me how, I just do by the way he's acting, but how much longer is he going to hold out on us? Carly and Lynn, I'm sure they're up to something, and Sally, I hope so much she can love Mrs Martha as much as I did..."

Pippa fiercely broke a digestive in half because the tears she'd so recently wiped away were threatening again.

"Oh, Tom, I want so much to reach that little girl, but she's so far away. Have I sent her even further away today, by sending her out with Carly and Lynn? What if she thinks nobody wants her? Milko seems to have gone, nobody knows where, and Milko was all Sally had in the world. Was it something _I_ said or did? Did I hurt Sally in some way, break her heart with some stupid, careless remark that made her tell him to leave? I keep having this mental picture of a suitcase floating through the air on its way to the station...oh, I told you it was silly!"

"It's not silly. It's Sally," Tom grinned, and received a sharp slap on the arm from a half laughing, half crying Pippa for his bad joke. I should add that Tom's terrible jokes were probably another reason that all the girls, till Pippa who saw the beautiful, kind human being behind the awkwardness, had loved him and left him.

"If Milko's gone, Sal _has_ to love Mrs Martha, she _has_ to," Pippa said, because Tom, knowing the whole story, understood...


	14. Chapter 14

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Anonymous, in chapter 15 I'll write about that scene you mentioned, where Pippa shows Steven the photo. But it will be my take on it so I'm going to send Steven back to the Home for a little while - hope you'll enjoy reading anyway:o)

This chapter is about Pippa's childhood. People on back to the bay net told me about Pippa's mother suffering from kleptomania and about her having a brother called Danny who joined the Army when he was older. The rest comes from my imagination.

**chapter 14**

A lot of love went into the stitches that knitted the rag doll.

Five-year-old Pippa King was the youngest of her family by several years and was much loved, cosseted and protected by three older brothers and two older sisters. But a time comes for each of us when we must stand alone and for little Pippa that terrible moment arrived the day she started school.

Even now she could still recall, as vividly as though it had happened only yesterday, her terror as her mother's hand slipped out of her own and how she had gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate on something, anything to stop the ready tears.

Frightened and alone among the crowd of noisy, bustling children, she was gazing up at a bronze plaque above the door, wondering what the words there said (the school was a very old one, built in the days when boys and girls were educated separately, and much later Pippa discovered that the mysterious words read 'Boys' Entrance') when a tall, gangly boy with a shock of red hair, who was fighting with an equally tall, gangly boy with exactly the same shock of red hair pushed into her and the other yelled, "Outta the way, doofus!"

Pippa never did find out whether it was Joey or Jimmy who pushed her over and whether it was Jimmy or Joey who yelled at her; she was far too busy trying to stop herself from falling to the cold, hard ground and scraping her knees and the heels of her hands in the process. And trying, oh, so hard not to cry like she'd promised.

The weeks leading up to Pippa starting school seemed to have coincided with some crisis in her normally happy family and, sensing something was amiss but not knowing what, Pippa, despite her qualms, had made up her mind she was going to be very, very brave. But fifteen-year-old Danny, the eldest and her favourite brother, was the only one she told and Danny smiled, a little sadly, Pippa thought, and said she was a good kid.

"But I won't leave home to join the Army as soon as I start school," Pippa added earnestly, thinking perhaps it was this that was worrying Danny.

Danny was always talking of joining the Army as soon as he was old enough, and he loved to watch war movies where soldiers were always being hailed as brave heroes by the grateful civilians who's lives and towns they'd inevitably saved from death and destruction. Army and brave were words that were irretrievably linked in five-year-old Pippa's mind.

It would be a great many years before Pippa learnt that her mother Coral had suffered from kleptomania.

Back in the Fifties depression was an illness that was little understood and poor Coral, having recently lost an old schoolfriend to cancer, beginning to develop arthritis in her knees, and trying to eke out enough money to feed and clothe a family of eight when her husband Bert was made redundant and had to take on a much lower paid job, found that pocketing a bottle of nail varnish or walking out of a shop with unpaid-for groceries gave her a temporary lift that nothing else could.  
But, while depression was little understood, kleptomania, one of its symptoms, was rarely even acknowledged as an illness.

It was nothing more than a great curtain-twitching scandal when the police finally knocked on Coral King's door and found two stolen skirts, a cheap dragonfly brooch, eight fountain pens and six pairs of gloves in her shopping bag, and tongues wagged unabated about the sight of the quiet, churchgoing mother-of-six being taken away, head down, shoulders sagging, the picture of guilt. Imaginations overflowed and theories ranged from Mrs King's many years' non-payment of fines for overdue library books to her being the mastermind behind a spate of post office robberies to her having put rat poison in her husband's tea.

Of course little Pippa, asleep in bed, knew nothing of these things.

Pippa's father, shocked and dismayed - and, well, I'm going to be honest here, secretly rather pleased; they were a very poor family - to keep discovering stolen goods in their cupboards and at a loss how to handle the situation, had decided the best course of action was to hush it all up and say nothing at all and only Danny had been taken into his confidence.

But now, with the arrival of the police to arrest Coral, the beans were spilled (and literally too, one of the kids had knocked over a dinner plate) and the whole family except for Pippa knew _some_ crime had been committed.

The King household was in total shock and confusion. Danny was instructed to "run like the clappers" and fetch his grandmother, who lived six blocks away, and thirteen-year-old Shirley, to be helped by twelve-year-old Heather, was tasked with keeping an eye on Pippa, who was still fast asleep, and Ronnie and Peter, the ten-year-old twins, who were screaming hysterically for their mother, while Bert accompanied his sobbing wife to the station. His wife needed him and so did his children, and Bert was tearing out what little hair he had left, wondering what on earth to do next.

And that was when some much-needed support arrived.

Brenda King was a sprightly woman of seventy-five with lots of common sense. Her first husband had turned out to be a wife-beating drunken bully and her second husband, although a kind, gentle man, was an invalid and unable to work due to tuberculosis and she had brought up eleven children almost single-handedly. The closest she had ever come to a holiday was an occasional day trip to the seaside or, in her later years, staying with one of her grown-up children, but nothing seemed to get her down.

"Knit two, pearl two" was always her smiling answer when people asked how on earth she managed to cope over the years. When Danny breathlessly told her what had happened, Brenda's latest knitting was immediately packed into her bag too.

Granny Brenda, never one to splash out on unnecessary luxuries, decided the seriousness of the situation merited extravagant action and so she and Danny screeched round the corner in their cab only moments before the police were to take Coral away for questioning. Within minutes she had calmed everyone down, within hours arrangements had been made, via the pay-phone at the end of the Kings' street and the large black phone that had pride of place on top of a doily and a small, polished table in a neat white house next to the sea in the lovely little town of Settlers Point, for Coral and Bert to stay with Maureen and Eric, Bert's sister and brother-in-law, who had no children and who were considered quite wealthy by the rest of the family, both to give Coral a much-needed break and while events blew over.

Poor Pippa meanwhile had cried herself to sleep. Her first day at school had been terrible, but she didn't know how to tell anyone.

Determined not to cry and realising that there was no one now to help her up like there always had been before, she struggled to her feet, her bottom lip beginning to quiver when she looked down and saw blood. For a moment there was silence.

And then somebody _laughed!_

Pippa had never been laughed at in her life before. Laughed _with_ and called cute heaps of times, but never laughed _at._ She had been so brave but now her resolve crumpled and hot tears splashed down her cheeks.

Miss Pettigrew, her teacher, pushed her way through the crowd to check Pippa's hands and knees.

"Now don't be silly, there's hardly a scratch," she said briskly. "A couple of band aids and you'll be right as rain."

"But I...I have to have lollies or a present too!" Pippa gasped in disbelief. It always happened. Whenever Pippa hurt herself, something nice was bought for her by her family to make up for it.

"I _see,"_ said Miss Pettigrew in a tone that clearly said "a spoilt brat". "Well, you're a big girl now, Pippa, and that certainly won't be happening here. Miss Denver," she called to one of her helpers. "Could you kindly attend to this child and then bring her along to my class?"

The day had got worse and worse. Jimmy and Joey sat in the desk behind Pippa and kept sniggering and whispering "cry baby" and because they were so fierce none of the other kids got involved. Pippa's first day at school, that she'd looked forward to so much, she hadn't made a single friend.

When she grew up, she was going to fix it so no kid would ever be as sad and alone as she felt tonight, Pippa thought, crying herself to sleep. She didn't know how but she would and...

Pippa started awake and listened, puzzled, to the commotion that had so suddenly woken her from a strange dream that she had been wandering all alone in the school and every door she opened simply led to another door to open. And then she heard a familiar voice - a much loved voice!

She scrambled out of bed and ran downstairs, flinging herself into her grandmother's lap to tearfully tell her story and sobbing her heart out when she realised Mum and Dad had abandoned her to go off on a very sudden holiday. But Granny Brenda kissed the tears better, tucked Pippa up in bed and told her in the morning someone would be there who would make everything alright.  
And when she went down to breakfast next day there was Mrs Martha sitting in the chair.

"Mrs Martha wasn't meant to be here till your birthday but she couldn't wait to meet you," Brenda said, folding up the knitting pattern and smiling at the rapt look on her small granddaughter's face. It was hard to pick a favourite when she had so many grandchildren, but Pippa, although a trifle spoilt, was sensitive and sweet-natured and very, very special to her. It had been worth staying up all night to ensure the gift was finished in time.

From that moment on, Pippa and the doll were inseparable and she would whisper to Mrs Martha all her hopes and fears and dreams. Mrs Martha even helped her make friends at school because the other kids were curious about who had knitted her, and curious to know too why she was knitted with such fine clothes and a wide, floppy hat (Mrs Martha had been invited to a wedding, Pippa explained, quoting the story Granny Brenda had told her from the knitting pattern).

When her grandmother died the year after her marriage to Tom, Pippa had taken the rag doll down from the dusty shelf and wept inconsolably into its yellow wool hair. Even now, when something was troubling her, she would still pick up the doll and, smiling, remember how Granny Brenda had managed to cope with everything life threw at her. Tom teased her unmercifully but he knew what a great sacrifice it was when Pippa gave Mrs Martha to Sally.

"You have to have someone to love when everyone else lets you down," Pippa explained, placing Mrs Martha on the dressing table in Sally's room so that the rag doll would be the first thing Sally saw when she came to stay.

"You have to have someone to love when everyone else lets you down," Tom gently reminded her, echoing Pippa's words. "And I guess all we _can_ do, Pip, is love them."

Pippa smiled and snuggled against his chest. "I love you, Tom Fletcher," she said, wishing that fate hadn't been so cruel and that they'd been able to have children of their own too. But they couldn't and all Pippa could do instead was keep her promise that no kid would ever be as sad and alone as she had felt when she'd cried herself to sleep on the loneliest night of her childhood.

Sally looked back. It wasn't fair! She hadn't told anyone Milko had been kidnapped in case the Phillips brothers killed him and now even Milko was chasing her and throwing the stones too. A sharp pain stung her cheek and as she swiftly turned again another stone pelted her in the back. Blinded with tears and terror, she could only keep on running...


	15. Chapter 15

Just a couple of points about this chapter. I'm not sure if "cold calling" or "cowboys" are general terms in Oz, but, in case they aren't and for any Aussie readers, in the UK "cold calling" means approaching would-be customers - instead of waiting for the customer to approach the firm - and "cowboys" is an expression used for anyone who isn't entirely honest with a customer eg charging much more than a job is worth; doing a botched job etc. _"Safe as Houses"_ is a name I invented for the building firm so apologies if a real one _does_ happen to exist out there - and, BTW, I doubt any building firm would still be in business if it carried on like this fictitious one does!

**chapter 15**

As the last note trickled away Steven wiped away the last of the tears and drew a shaky breath. Reluctantly, he placed the guitar back in its case and snapped it shut. Time to go home. Whatever, wherever that was.

It wasn't Mum and Dad and his friends Gazza, Andy and Jonno anymore - his parents had perished in the flames and his mates belonged to a rapidly fading past like some movie he thought, but wasn't sure, he vaguely recalled watching a long time ago. It wasn't the Fletchers: they had Frank, Carly, Lynn and Sally - and even Milko, he thought wryly - why did they need another person to worry about, another mouth to feed? It wasn't even the Home because nothing was the same when he'd insisted on going back...

"I could go back to the Home if you wanted me to. It'd save you heaps of money."

Tom and Pippa jumped. They hadn't known Steven was there. Believing all the kids to still be out, they were sitting on the couch, with bills, bank statements, insurance policies, and cups of coffee long gone cold laid out on the small oval table before them, their conversation going round and round in circles about how they could maybe, just maybe, save a dollar here or there.

"Mate, our finances aren't your problem," Tom replied, guiltily stuffing the paperwork he and Pippa had been worriedly discussing back into the alphabet-linked manilla folder and wondering just how much had Steven heard.

Enough to know that Tom and Pippa had agreed from now on they would forgo their only ever extravagance, a meal out with one bottle of red wine between them, in their favourite Chinese restaurant on the fourth Saturday of every month? That he and Pippa had decided they would start to buy the cheapest supermarket brand of coffee from the cheapest supermarket though it tasted disgusting? _"We can get used to it. And we can drink more tea too. None of the kids drink coffee anyway so they'll never know." _

Enough to know that the expensive leather suite which Pippa had so loved and which had been proudly displayed in the Fletcher home for only a few short months was destined to be sold back, at a massive discount, while they retrieved from the shed the faded and torn ten-year-old couch and matching faded and torn ten-year-old arm-chairs?

Pippa had sighed sadly as she ran a hand along the top of the couch when she came off the phone to Dream Homes Ltd and looked round at the badly scraped furniture and the four long scratches down the side of the wall unit (dating from the time when animal-lover Lynn, claiming it was harmless, had brought home a semi-feral cat, which had immediately run amok) and said, well, at least it would put some much-needed cash back in the coffers, if only for a little while.

Everyone knew that, having grown up with second-hand furniture and hand-me-downs, Pip dreamt of surrounding herself with luxury "when she won the Lotto". And everyone knew, with overwhelming certainty, that if Pip ever did win the Lotto every single cent would be spent on her kids and she'd still be saying things like "This dress will last me a bit longer yet" and still be making do with the old and worn out furniture for herself.

They'd all gathered round, on the day the suite was finally delivered, just to see Pippa's face and smile at her excitement, and Tom had popped open a couple of bottles of fizzy lemonade and poured everyone a glass. The two deliverymen, each gladly accepting a cold drink on what proved to be the hottest day of the year, had gulped back their lemmo and grinned politely, baffled by the fact that the whole family, for some strange reason, were all pretending to sip champagne and seemed to regard the arrival of the not-even-top-of-the-range soft leather three piece suite as a major celebration. Oh, but if they only knew, it was so much more than that!

Three times the Fletchers had almost saved enough to buy the leather suite and three times the money had gone on something else. Once it funded Frank's school trip skiing in Italy; the second time Pippa decided everybody should have complete new wardrobes, not just the usual clothes that the grant they were given for fostering barely covered, but fashionable stuff like their friends got to wear (and, though no one would have minded, Frank insisted it was only fair he opted out of that one); the third time it purchased the wide screen LCD TV that the Fletcher kids had been dropping hints about for ages. Funny, you know, but it never occurred to either Pippa or Tom, seeing as neither of them got much time to watch it, they could have returned the wide screen TV to Dream Homes Ltd instead. I never figured that one.

"Makes sense," Steven insisted, leaning on the back of the famous couch. "After all, I've only been here a few weeks." Somewhere between "here" and "a few" he was furious with himself when he heard an involuntary tremor in his voice. But he looked steadily at his foster parents as he leaned casually behind them, like it was no big deal, like he was just talking about how he might or might not go for a stroll along the beach later. "It's not like I've been here years or anything."

"Steven..." Pippa sounded emotional. She stood up slowly, walked over to the mantelshelf and picked up the silver-plated photo frame to hand to him.

"This photo," she said quietly. "Know why you're in it? You're in it because it's a family photo."

He shrugged, keeping his dark head down looking at the picture so she wouldn't see how close he was to tears.

"You're part of the family concept," Pippa said in the same quiet, choked voice. "We keep that photo on the mantlepiece because we're your family and this is your home."

"Home is where the hearth is." Tom made yet another of the nervous bad jokes that dogged him whenever he was anxious and he was real anxious right now, worried that his foster son was trying to take far too much responsibility on his young shoulders.

It wasn't Steven's fault that Tom had lost his job. It was entirely his own doing. The scene played out again in Tom's mind...

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"Actually, Miss Dixon," Tom suddenly interrupted his workmate Eddie Brookes' flow of words. "The roof is fine."

"But I thought you said..." The eccentric elderly woman with the air of refinement and falling fortunes, her black dress neat but worn, and the silver lizard brooch on the lapel of the matching short-sleeved linen jacket obviously paste, rested against her eagle's head walking stick, catching her breath and looking both puzzled and relieved. Then something else captured her attention for a moment. "Flossie! Flossie, come here! Bad girl!"

Tom grinned at the small black dog nosing in his work bag - no doubt having caught the scent of the now sadly gone ham sangers - and bent down to scratch her floppy ears. Flossie looked gratefully up at him through age-weakened brown eyes, her tail thumping. Much of her fur was peppered with white now. She and her elderly owner were everything to each other. All that they had. Both old ladies set in their ways and growing old together.

His colleague hid his fury and did his utmost best to retrieve the job.

"Bloody hell, Tom, you saw it for yourself! My friend means well, but his expertise isn't roofing - fortunately, eh, Tom?" Brookes smiled matily though neither man had ever liked the other. "Look, Miss Dixon, I don't want to frighten you but I'm going to give it to you straight here. I've been a roofer forty years and I've never seen a roof so badly storm-damaged. You're just lucky we happened to be passing. Okay, I'll admit, it's a major job, we'll need to replace every tile and check out the roof beams haven't rotted too, but if it isn't sorted and fast, come the next storm you won't even have a roof to complain about. And we offer good rates, unlike some - I'd hate to think of a nice lady like yourself getting ripped off by cowboys. Don't call ourselves Safe as Houses Conglomerate for nothing."

"Cold calling", the practice of knocking on doors and suggesting repairs to the householder, had started out innocuously enough. Safe as Houses Conglomerate (SHC had the monopoly on the building trade in the city, having bought up many small businesses) had suggested it when the Australian economy nosedived and, homeowners being hit particularly hard, work began drying up. No employee was pressurized into it, but it _was_ actively encouraged and there was a huge incentive: the introduction of big fat bonuses for those who managed to secure the most contracts.

And then, while SHC deliberately turned a blind eye, some people, like Eddie Brookes, got greedy.

Tom wasn't a roof-tiler; his trade was carpentry, but, like many of the blokes, he had picked up a working knowledge of other skills through years on construction sites and it had been obvious to him that the roof needed nothing more than a few tiles replacing here and there. Basic renovation work really, hardly the "major job" Eddie was claiming it to be.

"No." the grey-haired old lady suddenly looked very determined. "No, I'm sorry, Mr Brookes, but I've changed my mind about the work. I get...an inkling...about people. Things. Woman's intuition, I suppose you might call it. And I think your friend is being the honest one here."

Fiona Dixon grasped her imitation pearl necklace and pressed her lips together and Flossie shook herself and licked Tom's hand, giving up the joy of having her ears scratched to stand beside her mistress, and Tom smiled to himself despite his problems. Clearly a united front.

"Ed was far too much of a coward to deck me - though he wanted to." Tom grinned, when he and Pippa were mulling over events some weeks later. Being small and slight, Tom had taken up Judo as a kid to protect himself from school bullies and, though he wasn't a violent man, he was still well able to take care of himself in a fight.

"I dunno though, Pip," he added, sighing wearily. "It's all very well taking a high moral stance, but this is the real world and we've got five kids to think about. Then to find out later that Miss Dixon secretly had a fortune to come from an inheritance and could well have afforded the work, even if it wasn't needed...Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut."

"You know you'd never have been able to live with yourself if you had, Tom Fletcher," his wife replied.

They sat on the soft leather couch, their arms around each other's shoulders, cheek to cheek, only half listening to the Bruce Springsteen CD playing quietly in the background, and Pippa turned and gently blew on his ear to make him smile again.

"Pity the kids are due home any minute..." Tom grinned.

Pippa laughed. "Wouldn't be without any of them though. Or you. No matter what."

"Me neither, Pip. And we're not in dire straits - yet. We've got a nice home. Nice furniture. Especially our much-longed-for leather suite."

They sat for a while without speaking, knowing that, whatever happened, they were in it together.

Tom's actions had had far reaching consequences that no one could have foreseen. Heiress Fiona Dixon hd not only contracted an out-of-town firm to repair the roof, she had signed them up to work on the new holiday chalets she'd decided to have built. And she had mentioned to a distant relative, who was, as it turned out, Terence Moorcroft-Dixon, owner of the world famous De Luxe Australian chain of hotels that, due to their malpractice, it would be advisable to cancel any proposed building work with SHC. But lastly, and most damaging of all, she had gone to the newspapers...

Safe as Houses Conglomerate's shining reputation was in shreds. Tom's moral high ground cost millions in lost revenue and, as SHC had already had to tell many of his colleagues, they "reluctantly had to let him go". Despite the high unemployment, a handful of men managed to get other jobs, but Tom was on the wrong side of forty and nobody was prepared to employ him. Ironically enough, not even Fiona Dixon.  
Miss Dixon, though she was unaware of it as yet, was beginning to experience the early onset of dementia and there were sudden confusing gaps in her memory. The way she recalled and told the event, both Eddie and Tom had tried to persuade her to get the roof done unnecessarily. Only Flossie could have told the truth and she wasn't talking.

At last Pippa broke the silence that had been punctuated only by the steady ticking of the pendulum clock and Bruce Springsteen's gravelly voice.

"We could always sell our much-longed-for leather suite," she said.

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Steven glanced up fleetingly to acknowledge his foster Dad's weak joke before his face clouded over again.

"I've made up my mind. I want to go back to the Home. Let me try it for a week or two. See what suits us all." He smiled the Steven smile that years ago a neighbour had told his proud mother would always ensure Steven Matheson got his own way.

And he wasn't budging on this one.


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER 16**

"What the hell d'ya think ya doin'?"

Kane steeled himself. Scott, inevitably noticing the lessening of the hail of missiles and the absence of his second in command running alongside him and, having established that his younger brother had not suddenly carked it, broken a leg, been carried off by a giant seagull or found himself abducted by aliens, sought immediate answers.

"I ain't throwin' no more, Scotty," Kane replied, blowing up a long slow breath like he was suddenly hot, and gazing evenly back though he was trembling inside, aware it was never a good idea to cross Scotty.

It was the stone that cut into the freak's cheek that did it. At first it had been an overwhelming relief to feel all the anger and fear of what happened at home leaving him when he hurled the pebbles. But then one of the stones, one that _he_ threw, hit its target so perfectly that Scotty breathlessly roared _"Ripper!" _and punched the air. It had struck her square on the face, and a crooked red line appeared as though somebody had suddenly painted it across her cheek, and she was looking back at them both with the same frightened look in her eyes like he'd seen his Ma look at his Dad heaps of times. And when he stopped dead, Milko, Deefa and Fred, they'd all already stopped dead too, and they were staring at him like they didn't like him very much.

"Oh, so you ain't, ain'cha?"

He shook his head, backing away, half glad, half sad, that the weirdo was escaping. If she got away, good on her, but if she got away that meant Kane got Scott's undivided attention.

"We had a deal, Scotty. We drowned Milko if she lagged..." Milko shot him a filthy look. "Well, it _was_ what we said, mate." He shrugged to Milko. "But she _didn't_ lag, Scotty and...I'm goin' home!" He added abruptly, seizing his chance, as did Milko, Deefa and Fred.

But, to his amazement, Scotty didn't follow. Even more strangely, when, panting from running over the sand dunes - though it was a longer route home it was a safer one because Scott, having lately taken up smoking, got out of breath running uphill - Kane chanced looking downwards, he could've sworn Scotty was grinning. In fact, Scott raised one arm and, after first making a rude gesture, leisurely waved as though in brotherly love.

"He's weird," Milko remarked, busy swapping hats just as Sally the freak had told the other kids he liked to do. Fred the dragon was now sporting a green hat that matched his colouring while Deefa the dog was wearing Milko's recently abandoned red hat and Milko himself was pulling a fetching blue number down on his head.

"Ye-eh," Kane agreed, vaguely wondering where Milko had got all the hats from. Alarm bells were ringing in his head at Scotty's strange behaviour. But he shut them out. He was tired. Hungry and thirsty. All he wanted was to get home and curl up and rest.

"Drongo!" Scott muttered.  
Well, he'd done his bit. He'd got his sooky bro out the house where Dad was tanked up and in a bashing mood and if Kane insisted on going back there, well, ---- him, let him get bashed. And something else had taken his interest anyway. The loony freak may have gotten away, but in her rush she'd dropped the freaky-looking doll that she'd been talking to. Scott grinned. She was bound to come back looking for the ugly thing. And she was going to find it, he decided, torn limb from limb and scattered far and wide across the beach...

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"Lynn! Lynn, wake up! Sally's gone! We have to go look for her!" Carly gulped back a sob as she desperately shook the limp, white figure and yet again tried to get her to stand. She was hoarse from shouting for Sally and her hair, so carefully styled that morning, had tumbled all over her face as she ran frantically back and forth. "Oh, God, Lynn, I need _someone!_ How do I do this praying business? God, Buddha, Muhammad, are _any_ of you ------- bigwig guys listening? Do you _ever_ ------- listen?"

She knew she was rambling drunkenly as she shouted up at the cloud-streaked skies, but she couldn't help it. It was all God's fault anyway for allowing Lynn to lead the sheltered existence she had. If Lynn hadn't been into all that stupid God stuff, Carly wouldn't have had to wind her up about it and Lynn wouldn't have been so upset she drank so much when, all because of God and going to church, she had never done any of the normal teenage stuff like trying out alcohol.

"Hey, it'll be okay." A shadow suddenly fell across the sand.

The guy who stooped down beside her was vaguely familiar and seriously hot. Floppy fair hair, beautiful grey eyes, a voice that sent tingles down Carly's spine when it brushed against her ear. But for once she had more important things on her mind than making good impressions with seriously hot guys.

"It's not God's fault. It's my fault," she said, falling drunkenly against his chest, staining his shirt with lipstick, mascara and tears, but not caring. "And it's worse. It's heaps, heaps worse. Sally's run off and that's my fault too."

"Sally...?"

"My kid sister. I yelled at her and she ran off." Carly clung to him and wept uncontrollably now.

The strangely familiar guy with the beautiful eyes and the voice that sent tingles down her spine gently disentangled her hands from his neck so that he could better push the unconscious Lynn on to her side. "Look, I've done first aid. Don't try and walk her round. It's the wrong thing to do. You have to keep her in the recovery position in case she's sick again so's she doesn't choke, okay? I'm going for help. And, don't worry, Carly," he added as he scrambled up. "It'll all be okay, I promise. I'll tell them about Sally too."

Carly jumped. "How come you know my name?"  
"I asked someone first time I saw you!" He was already on his way and he had to shout back over the sea breezes so she could hear. "Don't you remember? I'm Zammo!"

"But I don't know any Zammo," Carly hiccuped to herself and Lynn, the tears steadily trickling down her face and falling off the end of her chin. "And I want Sally back. Please, God, Buddha, Mohammed, I don't care which of you guys does the magic spell, I promise I'll never drink again if you make Lynn better and bring little Sally back."

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"No way! You for real? What a...!" Marcus grinned. "No, I ain't gonna say it _again_, man. Jerk, maybe. But I ain't gonna say drongo!"

Like he'd told Steven, he couldn't get his head round how anyone could give up a ready-made family to come back to the Home. Having lived in three different continents, Marcus yearned to belong somewhere, anywhere. His folks had emigrated from the UK to the States when he was six and a few months ago his Dad's high-powered job brought the family to Australia. Then tragedy had struck with a double whammy when his father died of unexpected complications during a routine operation and weeks later his mother suffered a massive stroke that had left her semi-paralysed. She was making good progress in therapy, learning to walk and talk again, but the insurance money was being eaten up by medical bills and it would be a while yet before she was ready to come out of hospital.

Steven laughed at his friend's comment, unoffended. Marcus had said drongo in disbelief at least three times already, in the peculiar mix of Northern English slang he'd picked up from his parents, and the American and Australian idioms he'd picked up himself. The same age as Steven, he was however broader and a good head taller.

Feeling the heat, he'd tied his sweatshirt around his waist while they took a break from the random footie game they and a few mates had begun on the beach and, whether he realised it or not, his black skin was glistening in the evening sunlight. But the chicks they were chatting with had _definitely_ noticed and they looked suitably impressed. And a pang of jealousy suddenly shot through Steven.

In the old days, it had been Steven who captained footie and rugby teams, Steven who everyone wanted to hang with, Steven who got all the chicks' attention. But things had changed. Moved on. Okay, yeh, he was still a good looking, popular enough guy and the chicks were still interested, but...

He searched for how things were now and suddenly the words rushed at him. Second best. He'd never been second best in his life before. Second best was a whole new experience for Steven Matheson.

And, though there were still often times when he could lose himself with a gang of mates like he always used to, there were equally times now too when he would go off into a world of his own. When he looked in the mirror these days, a stranger stared back at him. Haunted eyes that had seen, and cheered, the fire that burnt his parents to death. The image of those leaping flames rarely left his mind. And, even when it did, there was always something to pull him back. Like now.

Out across the sea the red globe of the sun was bedding down for the night and the echoes of his and his mates' drunken cheers and the sparks that lit the sky like fireworks filtered mockingly back into his memory.

"You okay?" A frown creased Marcus's brow as he picked up the football again. "I was just goofing around, man. Ya know?"

"Yeh, yeh, I know. I'm cool." Steven shook himself and untwisted the top off the plastic bottle to take a swig of apple-and-blackberry flavoured mineral water.

"Sound!" Marcus thumped Steven's arm and grinned again. "Megan has the hots for you, mate!"

"You reckon?" Steven grinned back and glanced hopefully across at the pretty red-head, who immediately blushed and giggled at her friends.

But, try as he might, Steven didn't fit in at the Home anymore either. Only ten days later, to Tom and Pippa's delight, he returned to the Fletchers. Where everyone belonged but Steven.

Frank, the eldest and most responsible. With his mind for intricate detail, Steven could understand complicated DIY leaflets and follow them slowly, step by step, but Frank, though he could barely even spell some of the words, would simply ignore instructions, throw the papers in the garbo and have things assembled in minutes. Frank was Tom's right hand man, sharing the same love of joinery as his foster father and each was never happier than when building or repairing something or other, whistling away while surrounded by wood chippings, dust-sheets, hammers and nails.

Then there was Carly. Strikingly beautiful, dramatic and impulsive, eldest sister, boy mad, bang up to date with the latest fashions and music, adored by Lynn and Sally, especially Lynn, who was always borrowing Carly's clothes and make-up; Pippa's confidant when she needed advice about the two younger girls. And Lynn, middle sister, Sally's protector, known for always coming up with mad ideas she really thought could happen (_Frank, it says here Kylie Minogue can't make The Saturday Night Show. You could write and tell them your band'll sing on it instead!/ Pippa, you know we need more money? Why don't we keep sheep_?) often getting in everyone's way (_Well, it's raining so why can't I practice my dance steps in the kitchen?_) and often teased about her terrible singing and incredible naivety, but taking it all in her good-natured stride.

And Sally. Youngest and most timid, the one everybody wanted to spoil and look after and who, as the youngest and most spoilt, should have been staking her claim too as the bossiest and generally making a nuisance of herself like, in any family, the youngest was traditionally supposed to do. Except Sally was far, far too lost in Sally's world of Milko and counting and hand-washing rituals. But still the youngest for all that. Her place in the family secured.

And then Steven. Expected to blitz his way through exams, destined for Uni and a glittering career as a doctor or scientist or lawyer. Nobody else, occasionally not even his maths tutor, could understand some of the mathematical theories that Steven found so easy. But nobody understood Steven. Not even Steven himself.

Nobody knew the guilt he carried over the death of his Mum and Dad, nobody knew of his terror of fire. Because he smiled and everyone believed Steven was fine and Steven couldn't let anyone see him cry. In many ways he was as distant as little Sally.

The tune that had been playing in his heart for so long, not content till it transferred itself to guitar and set itself free on the summer air...he'd never know what that came from. All he knew was that it reached some deep, hidden part of himself, scalded his heart and stole away his tears.

He swung the strap of the guitar case over his shoulder and jumped back over the rock-pool, kicking up a cloud of sand and hail of pebbles, scattering the gulls, who squawked in noisy protest. Suddenly realising he'd been gone much longer than he intended and was meant to have met Lance at Summer Bay Town Hall half an hour ago, he picked up speed across the rough terrain and down through a large mass of slippery stones. Regaining his balance, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw someone was standing there waiting there for him.

"I gave you enough warnings about taking my guitar, Einstein..." Frank's hostility was so fierce that it almost crackled with heat.

Like his Dad Frankie, when red hot anger burned through Frank it clouded all reason. He clenched a fist and hit his palm hard. Ready to kill...

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: Just in case anyone was wondering why Zammo didn't have a mobile phone to call for help, this is set in 1988 when H&A began and, as far as I can remember, when mobiles weren't generally around.


	17. Chapter 17

**chapter 17 **

Poor Sally sank down on to a large rock, wiped her eyes with her knuckles and decided it was high time she gave herself a stern talking-to. So she took a deep breath. "Now if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times tears won't help..."

Oh, but it was no use. Milko had deserted her. Mrs Martha was lost. There was nobody left in the world and the tears _would_ keep on raining down her face. The cut from the stone wasn't bleeding now but it _was_ stinging and the salty tears made it hurt all the more.

"A thousand times," Sally wept, wringing her hands, and beginning to count. "One...two...three...four...five..."

_"Once a jolly swagman..."_

Sally jumped. But she knew it had to be her imagination. There was no way someone would be out here singing to themselves. And she often saw and heard things that weren't there, didn't she? People had told her so heaps of times. And you know something? She wasn't going to listen to things like Milko anymore. Not now, not after the way he'd turned against her.

"Six...seven...eight..."

_"...camped by a billabong, under the shade..."_

"...nine, ten, eleven..." Sally said, then picked up speed with her counting. It was a long way to a thousand. "Twelvethirteenfourteenfifteensixteen..."

_"...of a cooooliiibaaah tree..."_

Sally closed her eyes determinedly. "Seventeeneighteennineteen..."

_"..and he sang as he sat and waited by the billabong..."_

"Twenty...twenty-one..." Sally began to falter. She had been trying not to listen to the singing, but, oh, what if...? Kane Phillips had asked her if Milko had a twin. Milko had never _said_ he had, but she was sure she recognised the voice! What if he _did_ have a twin brother?

_...you'll come a waltzing matilda with me..."_

Sally couldn't hold back her curiosity any longer. She crept over the rocks and saw the funniest sight since Milko had gone surfing for the very first time, come back soaking wet from falling in the sea and put his very best red hat on only for a silvery fish to slither out and for sea water and seaweed to drip all down his face.

Lance - she'd have recognised Lance Smart anywhere, even though he had his back to her - sat fishing and singing at the top of his voice. He had a large cotton hankie tied on top of his head to keep off the sun, his trousers were rolled up to his knees and he was kicking the water so fiercely that it was splashing back up all over him. Sally had meant to be quiet as a mouse but she couldn't help an involuntary giggle as she slid into a small gap between the rocks.

"Hey, Sal!" Lance began, grinning when he saw her.

Then he stopped suddenly. He was a great mountain of a man who blundered his way through life and every situation but he knew when a kid was upset. Once, invited to a wedding reception, he had tripped over his own shoelace and fallen face down in the buffet, another time when decorating he had picked up what he thought was an empty tin of paint and swung it into the bin only for half a tin of white paint to fly back at him. If there was anything waiting to be knocked over or smashed, you could almost guarantee Lance would do both.

You've no doubt noticed when you've visited Yabbie Creek that the extremely expensive cards-and-china shop in its main Shopping Centre, owned by that tall, willowy couple who walk as though their heads might drop off at any minute, still, even after all these years, has a gilt-edged card in its window, saying _Children are NOT allowed_...? And you'll have seen that underneath is angrily scrawled _And neither is Lance Smart_...? I hear this hasty addition caused a great deal of gossip when it first made its appearance and that his mother Colleen went storming down when she heard about it.

But the tall, willowy couple said it had all been done in fun, and that Lance had seen the joke, and so had they, when he'd accidentally smashed their central display, an exquisite eighteenth century china teapot, while browsing for a gift for his girlfriend. There is a rumour that Colleen was only sweetened by being made a member of their very exclusive and snobbish Yabbie Creek Fellowship Club (members endorsed by personal recommendation of other members only), which is why the sign has been allowed to remain to this day. To attract potential customers' attention, the tall, willowy couple claim.

Whatever the truth of the matter, it's quite likely it was Lance who poured oil on the troubled waters. Despite his ferocious appearance, he hated blues of any kind and was a very gentle man who - perhaps because he understood only too well himself how they didn't _mean_ to do things like eat a large bar of chocolate just before dinner or drop fistfuls of coins into shop freezers when choosing an ice popsicle - had an affinity with children.

Although Sally was giggling, he saw the nasty cut streaked across her face and the tears still shining fresh in her eyes. And he sensed he had to tread very, very carefully. Whatever was troubling the little girl, it was something that ran much deeper than a simple tumble. And why was she here all by herself? There was no way Pippa and Tom Fletcher would have agreed to little Sally going for a walk on her own on the beach.

But he didn't scare her off with questions. With a sensitivity that would have shamed those with greater minds than he, who laughed at Lance because he was far from being _Smart_, he allowed Sally to talk first instead.

And she did, still giggling. She felt comfortable with Lance. He wasn't like most grown ups. He was just like another kid.

"Lance, do you know you're frightening off the fish with all your singing and splashing?" Sally asked in her grave little voice.  
"Sure I do. Mum and Alf reckoned I should go fishing but _I_ don't want to hurt any fish."

Sally nodded. It made perfect sense to both of them. That Lance could have said _thanks but no thanks _didn't enter either of their heads.

She looked at him curiously. She wouldn't have dreamed of asking any other grown-up the question but Lance was different. "How come you're out here singing?"

Lance grinned. "I'm practising for the talent competition, Sal, though that ain't the song I'm gonna sing, of course. Don't tell anyone but there's a girl I like heaps and she'll be there. Tuna and mayo or cheese and onion?" He took a sandwich and offered the box to Sally, lowering his voice to a whisper although there was nobody else around to hear. "Her name's Kathy Murray. Think you might know her better as Miss Murray."

"Miss Murray!" Sally cried in delight. "You can't eat that! " She added, startling Lance into dropping the sandwich. "Miss Murray won't like your singing when you've been eating tuna and mayo and cheese and onion!"

Lance sighed. He loved his food. But little Sally was right. His breath smelling of tuna, cheese and onions was NOT going to impress Kathy Murray!

"My turn," he said, trying to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. "And seeing as you've been so helpful with my problem, maybe I can help with yours - if you tell me what it is."

"I can't," Sally said sadly. " I can't tell _anyone_ or something dreadful will happen to someone."

"Well, now. That IS a tough cookie." Lance stroked an imaginary beard. "But maybe I got a solution. Supposing you happened to be thinking aloud? And supposing a body happened to overhear? Wouldn't exactly be lagging now, would it?"

He waited, not knowing if his idea would work or not. Sally looked up, her face grim.


	18. Chapter 18

**chapter 18**

There are moments in our lives when fate takes a hand albeit the hand is somebody else's. The moment Frank clenched his fist, ready to kill Steve for taking away the precious guitar, chanced to be the very moment that Scott Phillips chose to raise his hand as though he too wished to be counted in amongst the movers and shakers of Fate. Just so's Mrs Martha got the general idea of what was going to happen to her before she was torn limb from limb and drowned in the sea, Scotty decided a little roughening up wouldn't go amiss so, taking careful aim, he hurled her as far as he could throw over a random heap of rocks.

And so it was that a long-legged, long-armed, yellow-haired rag doll wearing a wide-brimmed wedding hat and pretty wedding outfit (rather impractical attire considering her new hobby) suddenly sailed through the sky and landed nearby, followed soon afterwards by Scott himself, who looked round in bafflement at what should have been Mrs Martha's designated landing area - till he saw two guys he knew vaguely as the Fletcher brothers.

And brothers is exactly what Steven and Frank were at that moment. The guitar dispute could wait till a more convenient time. For now, they were united in a common bond. Sally.

"Where is she?" Frank demanded.

"Who?" Scott asked innocently, knowing they couldn't touch him. He was a kid.

"You know perfectly well who," Steven said.

"Nope!" Scott smirked. "Now, if you're talkin' 'bout the Queen of England, I reckon she'll be in Buck Palace, sittin' on the throne, with her lackeys waitin' outside with the dunny paper, if you're talkin' 'bout Colleen Smartie-Wet-Her-Pants, I figure she's..."

"Where is she, you little psycho?" Frank yelled, losing his temper and grabbing Scotty by the shirt collar, raising him off the ground. "Sally wouldn't have dropped that doll unless she was in a helluva hurry!"

"I dunno, I dunno!" Scotty yelled, truly scared now. "She ran off."

"Why?"

"I dunno!"

"Mate, calm down. He's a kid. Just a kid. Like Sally."

Steven's calm voice and his hand on his arm brought Frank to his senses. This wasn't the way to deal with things. For all his reputation and despite the fact he was grinning at him like the devil incarnate, knowing he was safe now from a bashing, Scott Phillips _was_ just a kid. And Frank wasn't a bully. Being a bully was no way to make his Dad Frankie Morgan proud like he'd promised when just a kid himself. Reluctantly he let Scott go and Scotty ran like a bat out of hell, pausing at a safe distance before he screamed a torrent of abuse.

Steven slapped Frank on the back. He didn't have to say anything. He knew what a huge effort it always was for Frank to keep his temper in check.

"Doesn't help us though," Frank sighed, understanding the silent message.

"We'll find Sal," Steven said, with more conviction than he felt. "She can't be far. Anyway, she's with Carl and Lynn, isn't she?"

But he had a bad feeling about this. A really bad feeling. And they might have called a truce for now, but Frank was madly in love with that guitar. He wasn't going to forgive or forget easily that Steve had taken it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mike Langford created a stir the moment he pushed open the arch-shaped doors of Summer Bay Town Hall. Mike, known as Zammo to his friends, had acquired his nickname the day he'd hit the top peg of "Sampson" to triumphantly sound the bell at a fairground test-your-strength machine in a bid to impress Jenny Murray, younger sister of Kathy Murray who taught at Summer Bay Primary. Except he sprained his wrist in the process and then discovered pretty Jenny Murray had missed the moment anyway because she'd been far too busy winning a pink panther on the nearby shooting range to the admiration of the guys clustered round her.

At first Mike's mates had begun calling him Sampson, which he'd hated, but gradually it had become Sammo and finally Zammo. Which, like the test of strength machine, had a nice ring to it.

Zammo was exceptionally tall and this fact often made him rather accident prone. And he had chosen to visit Summer Bay Town Hall, not just because it would have a phone, but also because it was the nearest building from the beach. Two hundred years ago the eccentric architect of Summer Bay Town Hall had chosen to build it because he had more money and time on his hands than he knew what to do with. And, unfortunately, very little talent for architecture. It was a deadly combination. Zammo immediately banged his head on the far-too-low, crookedly semi-arched-shaped doorway, which caused him to trip and fall flat on his face. The portrait of Zachariah McDonald, painted in ceremonial robes and carrying a bell, commemorating the day he had appointed himself town crier, stared down at him from the wall opposite as though wondering if seconds should be counted down and the bell rung for round two.

"Never mind me! She needs help!" Zammo yelled, scrambling to his feet and impatiently shaking off those who had run to his aid. Time was all important. The girl on stage who'd just belted out "Memory" from the musical CATS and thought it wasn't a bad effort, even if her friends had strongly advised against it and some of the audience watching the dress rehearsal for tomorrow's talent show had looked rather alarmed throughout the whole song, scowled darkly at him.

"Who does?" Don "Flathead" Fisher had just returned from taking his recently delivered car for a spin and was bewildered by the fact a crowd had apparently felt the need to gather round the door in his absence as though eagerly anticipating his return.

"One of the Fletcher girls. Carly. She's really drunk. Really drunk. But her sister Lynn's in an even worse state. She needs an ambo fast." Zammo exchanged a look with Jenny. They were still good mates even though they were no longer an item.

Jenny had been the one who'd introduced him to Carly, at the end-of-term party in Yabbie Creek for a group of Kathy's friends, student teachers who had passed their final exams, and she had been stoked when Zammo seemed smitten. Because his parents insisted on sending him to an expensive private school in Mango River, Zammo often missed out on what was happening in Summer Bay, but Jenny herself knew heaps of people through Kathy.

Jenny, by virtue of her being Kathy's sister, had been invited on the night out and allowed to bring a mate (naturally she chose Zammo) on the understanding neither of them were to have more than a couple of lagers. Nobody ever figured out how Carly had got her invite. Where there was alcohol on offer, somehow Carly always somehow managed to be there. She'd been drinking heavily then too.

It had broken his heart to see Carly later leaning over the sea wall and throwing up into the sea. Not just because she couldn't even remember his name when he'd gone to help but because he couldn't understand why someone so pretty, so popular, was doing that to herself. Although their own group were pacing themselves, aware that newly fledged teachers couldn't afford bad publicity, few others around them had any qualms about it; it was Saturday night, it was the city, it was expected.

But with Carly it wasn't just drink drinking. It was wild, out-of-control drinking. It was dicing with death, running along the sea wall and announcing she was going for a swim (till half a dozen of them managed to pull her down). Zammo and Jenny stood together, shivering in the night air, as they waited in the long queue at the taxi rank. They knew that Kathy, even though she hadn't invited Carly (it turned out Carly somehow knew a couple of the guys from the college and, like Carly always did whenever booze was on offer, had simply turned up, knowing full well no one could send her back on her own) felt responsible for her, even though Carly had ruined her night. Kathy, Zammo and Carly had gone home far earlier than they'd intended and Kathy had phoned Pippa and Tom the next day and, without exactly dobbing her in, had explained Carly had a real problem with alcohol. She looked pale now.

"Just like Kathy to worry about everyone," Jenny whispered to Zammo as the emergency services were contacted. "I wish she had someone to worry about her for a change."

"You do a pretty good job," Zammo smiled, squeezing her hand.

"Thanks, mate! But Kathy's too soft-hearted for her own good and I'm not here all the time. I mean like a guy. Robert was gorgeous but he was only in love with himself and Kathy's better off without him, but he was the last guy on the scene and there's nobody else around..." Jenny shook her head sadly. "I wish she had someone."

"Wish we all did," Zammo sighed, thinking of Carly.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You got us in this ------- mess," Milko said. "You can -------well get us out of it."

Funny thing was, even though he was dressed as usual all in white except for the black hat (somehow that had changed colour on the way home) Milko reminded Kane of Scotty when he said it. It was the first time he'd heard Milko swear. But he'd changed heaps lately. No more Mr Nice Guy, Milko had said angrily as he'd thrust himself down on one of the old wooden crates that had once contained bottles of beer while Kane picked up the almost skeletal frame of an arm-chair, burnt out from the day Dad had nodded off in it whilst smoking, and, trying to ignore the combined musty smells of damp, dust and charred furniture, made himself as comfortable as he possibly could under the circumstances.

Fred the dragon bub was pretending to be engrossed in blowing smoke rings and Deefa the puppy, who hadn't barked for ages as if wary of drawing attention to himself, was watching the fire-breathing act as though he'd never seen anything half as fascinating in his entire life before. Truth was, they were both a bit scared of him. Milko wasn't the Milko who sat drawing cutesy pictures in school anymore.

"Yeh, well, like how's it my fault?" Kane demanded to know.

He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth as they heard heard his father's fist thudding against something - probably his mother - again. The bashing had gone on for some time now. It was the reason all four of them were sitting in the garden shed, afraid to go indoors.

"You ate the bacon," Milko said accusingly, glaring at him. "You and Scotty. Not me or Deefa or Fred. You and Scotty."

Tears stung Kane's eyes but he fought them back. Milko was right. It was Kane's fault. He'd got home just in time to see and hear it. The back was always the safest way to go in because the kitchen window was easiest to slip in and out of so he and Scotty always returned via the back way. And Kane had witnessed everything through the grimy glass.

There was a smashed bottle (Mum's medicine, with the funny name of vodka, she told Kane the doctor prescribed it and she had to drink it regularly) on the floor and Dad was in the act of flinging two dirty plates out of the cupboard with the door that hung off its hinges and throwing them at Mum like he was discus throwing.

"No wonder there was hardly any ------- decent bacon left! Gave it to the ------- brats, didn't ya?"

And then he'd grabbed her by the hair and...Kane hadn't the stomach to watch anymore.

And now Milko was glaring at him exactly like Scotty looked in a bad mood before he bashed someone.

"Do something, drongo!" Milko ordered.

But Kane didn't know what he should do. He wasn't even five yet, for Crissakes. Maybe when he was a year older, a whole five-and-a-half, he'd know what to do then. He closed his eyes and, wrapping his arms around himself, rocked himself to and fro, listening helplessly as the fight escalated, knowing that, even if they heard, nobody would intervene. Fighting, inevitably fuelled by drink and drugs, was the norm in the Hell Houses of Summerhill and police were not welcome in the tough little seaside town. Anyone foolish enough to dob someone in to the cops risked being bashed or worse.

A solitary tear ran down his cheek and he was glad Scotty wasn't there to see it. Milko alone would give him heaps. But at least he had his mates here for company, he thought. At least he wasn't sitting here all alone.


	19. Chapter 19

**chapter 19**

**  
**

"I can't," Sally said grimly. "I just can't tell you what's worrying me. Don't you see, Lance? Thinking aloud so that you can hear is EXACTLY the same as lagging."

Sally and Lance sighed together. In perfect synchronisation, without either of them being aware of it, each put their elbows on their knees and their chin in their hands, Sally sitting on the rocks and keeping a wary distance from the water, Lance sitting on the banks of the river surrounded by his fishing gear.

Sally could see no way round the problem. The Phillips brothers had warned her that they'd drown Milko if she lagged about them kidnapping him. She was a very honest little girl and it never crossed her mind that they had no way of finding out. She owed Milko. Even though he'd turned against her, he'd been her best friend when there'd been nobody else.

She sighed again. There was so much to worry about that she wasn't quite sure where to stop worrying about one problem and start worrying about the next. She'd dropped Mrs Martha running away from the Phillips brothers and poor Mrs Martha would be so frightened all by herself and poor Pippa frantic with worry when she learnt Mrs Martha was lost. And Colleen, Lance's Mum, would be so worried when she saw Lance hadn't eaten all his sandwiches. And what if Lance began to worry about _everything_ he ate making his breath smell, like Sally had warned him that cheese and onion would, so stopped eating altogether and wasted away and became as thin as Milko? Everybody would be so worried about him.

Funnily enough, it didn't occur to Sally for a second that anyone might be worried about Sally herself.

Lance racked his brains and wished he had more of 'em. Then he might be able to piece it together. He was sure Sally's problem had something to do with Milko. Sally had been pretty cagey about Milko when he'd asked her how he was these days. She had only primly replied _As well as can be expected under the circumstances, thank you_ when normally she loved talking about him.

The sunlight glistened on Lance's watch, to his horror showing exactly the same time that it had done last time he looked at it. The watch battery he still hadn't got round to replacing must have finally given up the ghost.

"Sweet Jee..." He jumped up, dropping the fishing rod in his haste, about to swear, but stopping himself. Serious little Sally would be shocked.

"Jumpin' jellybeans!" He amended. He was meant to be meeting Steven - and impressing Kathy Murray - at Summer Bay Town Hall for the dress rehearsal for the talent contest.

"Why did you say that?" Sally asked curiously.

"My watch stopped. Ages ago," Lance explained, sitting back down again, deciding a few more minutes wouldn't matter. Sally was more important and Steven would understand.

"No, I mean about the jelly beans. Jelly beans don't jump. Do they?" Sally liked facts to be correct, everything in the place it should be. "Pippa took me to Mrs Parker's Ye Olde Summer Bay Lolly Shoppe and I saw some jelly beans in the jar there. They weren't jumping. Were they supposed to?" She frowned anxiously.

"No, Sal. It's only an expression."

"Oh!" The little girl sounded very disappointed. "I was hoping they did. And that maybe people had to jump too if they saw them jumping. Like you did just now. You know, for luck or something."

Lance was a strong man who didn't cry easily, who laughed at the slushiest moments in tear-jerking movies and mercilessly teased those who would weep over nothing at the drop of a hat. But he felt tears prick the back of his eyes. She was eight years old and so much tragedy had blighted her young life. She needed to _be_ eight. To laugh at nonsense like other eight-years-old could.

"Well, you know, Sal, who's to say jumpin' jelly beans _don't_ exist?" He said gently. "After all, somebody must have said it first for a reason. So I think somewhere in the world there MUST be jumpin' jelly beans and there MUST be folk jumpin' for luck when they see them."

It did the trick. A smile lit up Sally's face.

Lance looked at the angry red scar and the dried-out tear streaks on her dirt-smudged face. Poor little mite. She needed to laugh more. Well, he was going to make darn sure she did.

"Anyhows, I better get on with practising my singing. First though need to clear my throat..." Lance twirled his ears with his fingers as though winding up an engine and began making strange noises that might have been an engine in trouble or a lion with a sore throat.

Sally giggled. Childish giggles, filled with fun and mischief. Probably the first time she'd truly laughed since before her parents drowned.

"More! More!" She pleaded, as, spluttering with coughs, Lance finally had to pause to catch his breath.

Lance grinned and obligingly launched into a peculiar gargling not unlike a water pipe about to burst, while rolling his eyes exaggeratedly and pumping his ears. Sally laughed heartily and knelt up on the rock, silver tears rolling down her cheeks. Happy tears. She wiped them away only for yet more to take their place.

And then a shadow suddenly crossed the little girl's face and she stopped laughing and sank down in dejection.

"Frank! Sally's over here!" Steven roared from the top of the rock face, the strange gargling noises having alerted him to where to look. He turned back, grinning. "Found you at last!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Pippa, I'm sorry," Carly gulped, as they stood in the waiting area, having left Lynn sleeping.

The words were so inadequate. She might have meant them but what did that do to make things any better? Poor Pippa was white as a sheet and still running her fingers frantically through her hair. It was only thanks to the skills of the medical staff at the Northern District Hospital that Lynn hadn't died. And Sally was still missing. Anything could have happened to her.

Carly and Lynn had been located easily enough thanks to Zammo's directions, but Sally seemed to have vanished into thin air. The SES helicopter was searching the beach area and Tom was up there with them, helping to look. There wasn't room for anyone else and Tom had trained with the SES so Pippa had gone with Lynn and Carly to the hospital because somebody needed to be with Lynn too.

Pippa worked part-time as a nurse at the same hospital and some of her friends and colleagues were gathered round her. Carly stood on the fringe of the group. Even though nobody actually said anything, she could feel their disapproval. It was all a terrible, terrible mess and she wanted to break down and weep. But she couldn't. She had to be strong because she was on her own now. Forever and ever and ever. She'd thrown away her last chance. It was going to be so lonely, not having anyone again, but it was her own fault. All she'd cared about was the drinking.

Carly suddenly felt the need to retch again. She'd never felt so crook. Hangovers were awful but this was one was worse than ever. A nurse had given her one of the standard hospital cardboard containers in which to be sick, but she couldn't bear to be here with Pippa anymore, not after she'd broken her heart.

She pushed open the double doors and fled outside, to where a handful of cigarette addicts were getting their nicotine fixes, puffing clouds of blue smoke into the sea-cooled air. Carly heard someone click their tongue loudly as she threw up noisily and unprettily all over the grass and knew everyone would be staring at her in disgust. It was obvious that she'd been drinking. She could hardly stand straight and her breath reeked of alcohol.

Determined not to see the contempt in their eyes, she blinked back the tears as she looked up at the familiar sign _"Northern District Hospital Caring for people from the Bay to the Breakers". _

Sometimes Carly had caught the Yabbie Creek bus and met Pippa here as her foster mother came off her nursing shift. On beautiful days like this, filled with sunshine and breezes, they would have taken the short cut across the beach to Summer Bay, enjoying the sun's gentle warmth and the sweet kisses of the breeze, talking about anything and everything.

Carly would feel so proud when Pippa sought her advice about the younger girls, even when it was just little things such as whether Lynn and Sally might prefer jelly and ice cream or lemon meringue with dinner. Her own family had always dismissed her as too stupid to have ideas and opinions about anything. Well, Pippa asking her advice would never happen again. Drunks didn't know anything, did they? Drunks couldn't even look after their two younger sisters without putting both their lives in danger.

Carly turned away, blinded by the tears she was trying so desperately hard not to cry. She needed to be on her own for a while. Didn't matter where she went. Somewhere she couldn't hurt anyone anymore. Maybe she would just sit on a bench in the hospital grounds till it was night and the moon was high, till it was time for the social workers to come and collect her. Pippa and Tom would have her bags ready packed by then and be only too glad to know she was gone out of their lives forever.

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Sally took a deep breath. Steven hadn't been the Steven she was used to. He hadn't teased her once. Well, not _yet._ In fact, if Sally hadn't known better, she'd have thought he even seemed _glad_ when he _said_ he was glad she was okay. He seemed like the Steven she thought she'd seen for a moment before she'd lit the match, the day she'd been trying to make him go away. Almost like...well, almost like they could be friends.

A helicopter, probably checking out the weather conditions, was circling over the sea and Steven was looking up at it. And Lance and Frank were busy talking. So Sally took a deep breath. It had been on her mind a while. But she wouldn't have dared say it to the old Steven.

"Steven, we could swap," Sally said, as they walked along.

"What?"

"I don't know if it would work or not. I don't know if it would make it go away. But I'm not scared of fire and you're not scared of the sea so if I pretended to be scared of fire and you pretended to be scared of the sea, maybe...maybe...It's a stupid idea," she finished lamely, wishing she hadn't said anything now.

Steven was just looking at her without saying anything. He was probably going to start calling her silly Sally again and sing that cruel song about her living in an alley to make her cry. And the terrible sea was thundering closer and closer. She could hear it rushing through her ears and there was no Milko to tell her everything would be alright. She closed her eyes as the ground began to rock beneath her...

"No, it's not," Steven said huskily, when at last he found his voice. There was a lump so large in his throat that he'd begun to wonder if he'd ever be able to speak again. Nobody else knew his greatest fear but little Sally, whom he'd bullied constantly simply because she could cry and he couldn't, had seen right through him. And even wanted to help.

It was just a little kid idea. Based on magic and superstition and everything else that anklebiters believed in as much as they believed in the myth of Father Xmas. But Sally wasn't so far wrong, Steven realised. If they supported each other instead of being enemies, they _could_ help each other overcome their fears.

"You know, it just _might_ work," he said gently. "We could give it a go anyway. It's a great idea!"

He squeezed Sally's shoulder as he spoke and, without thinking, Sally opened her eyes. There was no water coming inland to sweep her away. No sound of the terrible sea rushing through her ears. No ground rocking beneath her. As though just talking to Steven had made it all go away.

"Is it?" She smiled uncertainly.

"Dead set!"

Sally's smile became a little more sure. It was the first time she and Steven had ever had a proper conversation and she didn't know if at any moment he was going to turn into the old Steven again.

Frank began strumming a tune and she glanced curiously back, wondering why Steven had been carrying the guitar when they'd first found she and Lance. Frank never let anyone take the guitar normally.

"Are you...are you going to play guitar?" She asked, still slightly wary of him. "And be in a band? Like Frank?"

"I can't play even half as well as Frank, Sal. Wish I could!"

"I bet you can!" Sally said loyally, and giggled when Steven flicked her hair and said _"No, I can't, doofus!" _But in a nice way, a way that made her laugh.

Steven grinned down at her. Sally was funny. It was cool having a kid sister. Someone who thought you could do anything. It was like...he didn't know how to tell it. All he knew was that it was somewhere in the music that had come from nowhere into his heart.

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Tears misting her vision, Carly turned abruptly - and immediately collided with someone coming up the path.

"Hey! I love it when chicks fall for me in a big way! Jen's sister just dropped us off so's we could come to see how you and Lynn were," Zammo grinned, steadying her. Then he saw how upset she was. "Hey! You okay?" he asked.

"Fine," Carly croaked. "Just feeling a bit crook with the drink, s'all."

"Your Mum's shouting you." Jenny indicated to where Pippa waited by the double doors.

"Pippa's not my Mum. Not my real Mum," Carly corrected sadly, wiping a hasty hand across her eyes. "I wish she could be. I wish a lot of things hadn't happened."

"It'll be okay, Carl. It will," Zammo said, his brown eyes full of concern. He didn't know what else to say.

"Sure it will," Jenny promised. "You've got your mates, haven't you? You've got us."

Carly swallowed. That was another thing she'd miss. Without realising it, she'd made some good friends in Summer Bay. When she wasn't drinking, she could actually be a nice person. Even Carly hadn't known _that_ Carly existed.

"Carly, what's wrong? Where are you going?" Pippa had caught up with her and looked baffled.

"I don't know." Carly's voice was a strange, tearful squeak. "Wherever the social workers place me next. Because you...you and Tom...I know you can't have me stay now...Not after everything..."

"Pippa! Pippa!"

Like one of her own small pupils might do, Kathy Murray threw her car keys in the air, clapped her hands twice and caught them again, so stoked she hardly knew where she was or what she was doing. She didn't know how, when or where she'd put the car in the parking lot, let alone whether or not she'd locked the doors. In fact, if you'd asked Kathy what her own name was at that moment, I very much doubt she'd have been able to tell you.

"I just heard it on the car radio! Sally's been found! They said Tom radioed back to HQ and said she's with her two older brothers and a friend and she's absolutely fine!"

"Oh, thank God!" Pippa said, flinging her arms round Carly, while Zammo and Jenny high-fived each other in delight.

Carly drew a great shuddering breath.

"Yeh. Thank God. I was hoping and hoping and hoping I'd hear Sal was alright before I went back into Care," she muttered into Pippa's shoulder.

And then the tears finally fell. The tears Carly had sworn she'd never let anyone see her cry, they soaked through, drenching Pippa's left shoulder. If only she hadn't ruined everything and had been able to stay, she'd have let Sally have as many invisible Milkos as she wanted and Lynn go to church as often as she liked. She wouldn't have teased them about it anymore. Well, no more than older sisters did. With slightly exasperated humour and heaps of love and without the cruelty and acid-tongued put-downs.

The drink must have still been befuddling her brain. Carly suddenly had a peculiar picture in her mind of hundreds of Milkos - Lynn had told her what he looked like, based on a description Sally had given her once so her image of Milko, it has to be said, _was_ pretty accurate - gathered, like a flock of birds, on the Fletcher house roof. Why they were on the roof, Carly had no idea, but one by one they were jumping down, half to follow Lynn and Sally who were walking to a church, the other half protesting and trying to start fights with their saintly brothers. The image made Carly want to both laugh and cry at the same time.

Of all the Fletcher kids, most people would have thought stunningly beautiful Carly the most confident. But Pippa had seen the flashes of vulnerability behind the always-carefully-made-up eyes and knew that Carly needed as much reassurance as eight-year-old Sally did. Outwardly self-assured, inside she still trembled like a leaf, remembering the harrowing memories of her childhood. Small wonder she had turned to drink to blot out the pain. Pippa held her eldest daughter as tightly as she would have held her youngest.

"Carly, tell me where it says that family just give up on one another. Because I never read it anywhere." Pippa spoke to her as tenderly as though she were talking to little Sally. "Sweetheart, family is about having a home and a place where you belong."

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The guitar playing suddenly picked up speed.

_"Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, guess I'll go eat worms! Long, thin, slimy ones, big, fat, juicy ones..." _Frank and Lance began the singing, their voices blended in perfect harmony even though it was a nonsense song.

"I know it! I know it!" Sally cried excitedly, innocently unaware that Lance and Frank had just hatched the plot between them, knowing perfectly well it was one of Sally's school songs. It was one of several songs that Summer Bay Primary liked to blast out at every end-of-term show while proud parents dabbed their eyes and gave standing ovations, oblivious to the fact no one had sung in tune.

Like Steven, Lance and Frank had noticed the helicopter with SES emblazoned across its side and realised they must be looking for little Sally. But they realised too that there would only be room for one small girl inside the helicopter and how timid Sally was. The nonsense songs had been Lance's idea.

"We better make it into a game for her," Lance had said, "or Sal will think she's being arrested for running away. Fortunately, it don't take a genius to figure out she's running away from _something_ 'cos I ain't no genius," he added wryly.

"You know about kids though," Frank said, half enviously. Sally was _his_ kid sister, but it hadn't occurred to _him_ to tread softly. He'd been all set to yell out _"She's here!" _and probably terrify poor little Sally into the bargain till Lance made his suggestion.

"Not everything," Lance sighed.

He still hadn't discovered what was troubling Sally though he was convinced Milko had something to do with it. And that the Phillips brothers had something to do with it too. Frank had told him that Scott Phillips had been throwing Sally's doll around when they came across him. Sometimes Lance wished he _did_ have the mind of a professor. Like Steven. Who'd glanced at Lance and Frank for a moment and taken only a second to work out their plan.

_"Down goes the first one, down goes the second one, oh, how they wriggle and squirm! Up comes the first one, up comes the second one, oh, how they wriggle and squirm!"_  
Steven and Sally joined in, losing the tune and words often because they both kept looking at each other and laughing.

Unbeknown to Sally, while Steven was keeping her occupied with the singing, Lance and Frank were signalling to the helicopter. But the SES pilot indicated back that there was nowhere yet to land. They needed to move further away from the rocky, half hidden fishing area - the reason it had taken so long to locate Sally - and get on to the beach, where there would be plenty of space.

They reached the end of the first nonsense song and Frank immediately led them into another, one that he had often sung with the Fletcher family when he'd been trying to teach them some basic guitar notes.

_"Where have you been all day, 'En'ery, my son? Where have you been all day, my beloved one?"_

Laughing, the others quickly picked up the words.

_"Woods, dear mother, woods, dear mother, oh, mother, come quick cos I feel very sick and I wanna lay down and die..."_

People on the beach stopped and stared. Surfers abandoned surf boards and perfect waves and came out of the water to stand and watch the strange sight of the motley band of singers and the helicopter that tailed them.

_"What did you do there, 'En'ery, my son? What did you do there, my beloved one? Ate, dear mother, ate, dear mother, oh, mother, come quick cos I feel very sick and I wanna lay down and die..."_

Suddenly realising they were the centre of attention, Sally blushed and buried her face in Mrs Martha's yellow woollen hair.

"Don't stop, Sal, don't stop!" Lance said, wrapping his arm round her and propelling her forwards with him. "I just heard someone say we must be making a commercial or a movie so let's have a lend of them and pretend we are! It'll be funny!" Lance's voice boomed back into the song.

_"Ate, dear mother, ate ,dear mother, oh, mother come quick, cos I feel very sick and I wanna lay down and die!"_

Lance was right. It _was_ funny that all these people thought they were making a movie. Funny like folk jumping when they saw jumping jelly beans. And she was quite safe with Steven, Lance and Frank. Even the terrible sea couldn't hurt her.

Feeling more confident as Lance took her hand, Sally grinned up at him and began singing again.

Steven suddenly felt a cold draught as Frank fell into step beside him.

"This is for the benefit of Sal," Frank said in a low menacing voice, his eyes blazing with fury. "But you still owe me for taking my guitar. And, trust me, Einstein, there's gonna be payback."


	20. Chapter 20

**chapter 20**

Sally knelt up on the bed, pushing up the curtains with her head _(hands can't touch or it's bad luck, hands can't touch or it's bad luck). _She pressed her forehead against the window and breathed out, but it was too dark to see to make pictures in the steam of her breath. So she squashed her nose against the glass, shook her head, rolled her eyes and, opening her mouth wide, pulled tongues at the large tree that had dared frighten her by impersonating a monster her very first night under the Fletchers roof.

The glass tasted cold and slightly bitter. Sally didn't really know why she was tasting it but it had been a very peculiar day. She opened and closed her eyes twenty times to clear her mind and thought about the last part of it.

Like a stone age bird, the helicopter had whirred noisily above them, casting a giant shadow over Summer Bay beach and bringing with it a cold wind that whirled everything in its path like a brewing storm. Even though she could see Tom sitting next to the pilot, Sally clung to Lance's hand, wondering if she was in terrible trouble for running away. She would have been terrified if she hadn't been with Lance, Frank and Steven and if they hadn't all been laughing and singing so she knew everything must be alright.

"It's just like the _Wizard of Oz_, Sal! You're Dorothy going home and I'm the scarecrow who needs brains, Frank's the cowardly lion who needs courage..." Lance grinned at Frank because Frank was afraid of no one. "And Steven...Steven's..." Lance frowned, unable to remember the third character from the movie.

Frank looked at Steven, who was standing a little way back as if he wasn't with anyone.

"The tin man. The one don't have the heart," he said coldly.

Sally had been very surprised at Frank's tone. And even more surprised when Steven turned away without answering. Frank had been joking. Hadn't he? She knew Frank and Steven fought, usually when Steven had been teasing Sally and Frank didn't like it, but boys were always fighting. She'd thought they were mates, what with Steven borrowing the guitar and them all singing and everything.

But she didn't have time to ponder on it too long because, to the cheers of the onlookers, she was up in the helicopter, with Tom ruffling her hair and pointing down to where Steven, Frank and Lance stood waving.

Sally - and Mrs Martha - would never forget the helicopter ride. How breathtakingly beautiful Summer Bay looked as evening fell and lights began to twinkle across the seaside town and the pretty harbour where toy-size ships sailed across the darkening waters. The picture kept coming back into her mind and she fought hard to stay awake, anxious not to miss any of this exciting night. Even at the hospital.

"Would you like to go home with your Mum and Dad?" The lady doctor put down the stethoscope and smiled. Apart from the long gash across her cheek, the little girl was absolutely fine. TLC and the familiarity of home would do her more good than medicine and white sterile hospital wards.

Sally nodded emphatically. Most eight-year-olds would consider themselves far too old for laps, but Sally snuggled against Pippa in sleepy contentment. Warm. Safe. Loved.

Everyone was out and Lynn was to be kept in hospital till tomorrow for observation. She had Tom and Pippa all to herself. How could she ever have felt unwanted? Hugs and kisses goodnight, hot chocolate and marshmallows, a foamy bubble bath, fresh-scented sheets and another chapter of _Five Dolls in the House_, one of the books that hadn't been too badly damaged when Steven had trashed the room. (Somehow Sally knew it was Steven, but somehow she didn't want to dob him in either.)

_Five Dolls_, one of Pippa's favourites when she was eight too, was a very funny story of a little girl who could make herself small enough to go inside a doll's house, where she met the likes of bossy Vanessa, posh Jacqueline, and, most of all, mischievous Lupin and her equally mischievous friend the monkey, who lived on the roof and liked to shout down the chimney at everyone.

Sally loved the story and had slept like a log afterwards, but the bright light and noise of another helicopter had woken her suddenly from her deep, cosy sleep. This one, she knew, would be the "weather watch" that circled the sea at the same time every night, looking out for sudden storms or high winds. But it didn't stop her hoping. And she still didn't know what she was going to do about the twenty dollars ransom money that Scott Phillips had demanded for Milko. She couldn't tell Pippa. She couldn't tell anyone or they would kill him.

"Milko, where are you?" She whispered sadly into the night. "Because, you know, if you've run away from the Phillips brothers and you're scared of the chopper, you don't have to be. It's only come to rescue you. Please, Milko, come back!" She added after listening for a while.

But her voice lost itself in the darkness and still nobody answered. Sally and Mrs Martha were all alone.

-----

_There are a million songs for the lonely  
a million stars to look up at each night  
but there's no one to hold you and kiss you  
and tell you everything's gonna be alright..._

He had a lot in common with Sally really. Sally counted desperately when something troubled her. Steven turned situations into rhyme. He never used to, but, since the fire, he'd begun churning words into songs. Anything to drown out the terrible memory.

_"Steven, the fire..."_

The fire he had stood cheering with his best mates, Gazza, Andy and Jonno, all of them slightly drunk on four large cans of lager and two large bottles of strong cider, unaware that the electrical sparks flying into the air came from his own home where his parents were burning to death.

_There are a million songs for the lonely  
a million stars to look up at each night..._

Everyone had someone. Tom and Pippa. Sally and Milko. Lynn and her God.

And they didn't even know they were couples. Not yet. Only people who didn't have anyone had time to peoplewatch.

Lance and Kathy. Engaged in serious whispered conversation. Steven heard Sally and Milko's names mentioned several times. He would have joined in except he didn't feel he was any expert on Sally and Milko. He was the one who'd teased her about Milko most. And he wasn't an expert on anything anymore.

Carly and Zammo. Carly, still feeling guilty that her drinking had nearly killed Lynn and Sally, unusually pale, but at least smiling now, at something Zammo was saying, leaning her head to one side to listen, curling her hair round her finger like Carly always did when she was pleased but uncertain about something.

Frank and Jenny. Jenny, trying to persuade an unusually shy Frank to play another song. She'd got him to play two so far and some of the diners, swept up in the happy mood of a missing child being found safe and well, sang along. Frank, uncomfortable that they were being hailed as heroes and he was being called the Pied Piper, and adamant he wasn't singing anymore, caved in. Jenny could be very persuasive.

Steven put down the finished glass or coke, swirling the straw round the glittering ice cubes that rattled in response. The Diner had been Lance's idea and Lance's treat, but Steven hadn't been felt like eating and had settled for two glasses of coke while Lance and Frank had hungrily polished off snags, fries and beans.

He had only come to the Diner because Lance had insisted and anyway there was no place else to go. Kathy, Jenny, Carly and Zammo had since returned from the Northern District Hospital with the great news that Lynn was doing fine and Sally, airlifted to the same hospital, had been doing so well that she was already being allowed to go home with Tom and Pippa.

"Guess I'll head back," Steven said.

No one heard. Maybe he didn't say it too loud. Maybe he didn't say it at all. He tried to make out it was no big deal, his not belonging anywhere. He yawned, locked his fingers together, stretched his arms high above his head. Frank threw him a look. _Dead at ten paces. _

Jenny laughed at Frank's expression, ran her finger down his arm and drew him back to the music. But, wrapped up in their own little world, she didn't think to turn her head to see what or who he was glaring at. The chair scraped as Steven pushed it back. The coffee machine gurgled and bubbled another frothy coffee. Nobody noticed him leave.

_...but there's no one to hold you and kiss you  
and tell you everything's gonna be alright..._  
The sweet smell of doughnuts and chocolate lingered on the evening air as he pushed open the Diner doors and a young couple brushed past him inside, like everyone except Steven, eager to be part of the celebrations.

The door swung behind him and he looked back for a moment, at the light and the silhouettes and the singing he'd shut himself out from. He thrust his hands into his pockets and headed down to the beach, the strains of guitar music peppering the summer night. Someone must have bribed Frank into playing a solo next. Steven recognised the piece. _Rodrigo's Guitar Concerto D'Aranjuez_. A pretty Spanish melody and, although he preferred the heavy rock he and his band were into, somehow no surprise - Frank loved all music and would have played till his fingers bled. And beyond.

The guitar playing grew fainter and ripples of applause turned into the ripples of the night sea. The lights of the Diner and Summer Bay faded to moonlight and stars.

Steven sank down on the sand and watched the inky blue sea and the rolling waves that seeped on to the shore before quickly creeping back again like timid children. He thought of his Mum and Dad. Of the house, long before it was burnt to a cinder, with its pristine white door and its brass-plated gold numbers 27, the corner of the seven splashed with a careless blob of white paint.

That was from the time when Dad, always too lazy to remove fixtures and fittings before painting, was distracted when Mum, sitting out soaking up the sun, suddenly yelled at the neighbour's dog, who was making off with the rolled-up newspaper that the paper boy had just delivered by hurling randomly over the hedge and Jip, next-door's comical-looking rusty-coloured mongrel and probably the most stupid dog in the whole of Australia, had leapt over the fence (three times his height) to catch and run off with.

"Stop him! Catch him! I need the coupon for my free sugar canister!"

Mrs Matheson could easily have afforded to buy a new tea, coffee and sugar set, but she had set her heart on the ugly purple-swirly-patterned plastic containers that were unavailable anywhere else - hardly surprising as, finding the line a flop and sales extremely sluggish, the manufacturers had donated them to the newspaper in return for free advertising space.

The dog panted and ran like a fugitive from justice, with frequent glances behind to check on his progress.

Mr and Mrs Matheson were already giving chase. So was the paper boy. And two workmen, who, from the top of their scaffolding, had seen the dog running off with something and thought it must be valuable. And assorted neighbours, including Jip's embarrassed owner and the six-year-old twins from down the street, who didn't know why everyone was running but thought they'd better join in.

Crying with laughter, Stevo and his girlfriend Tina did a U-turn and now headed the race, Tina's tied-together long blonde plaits rising and flying behind her like wings.

And then, without any rhyme or reason, there being no rhyme or reason whatsoever to his life, Jip stopped abruptly in the middle of a muddy field that was earmarked for a new housing development, flopped down and began chewing the newspaper to pieces. He looked up proudly as Stevo and Tina caught up with him first, his tongue lolling to one side, his tail pounding the ground, bits of soggy newspaper fluttering away like snow. He pressed his paw down hard on the front page and took another large bite. It was sooo nice of everyone to join him for dinner.

Tina. Whatever happened to Tina? Tall, slim, Scandinavian blonde hair, pale blue eyes. They were both barely fourteen and she was his first girlfriend, if you didn't count the clumsy kisses and shy giggles of primary school romance. Tina, who had been furious to realise she was so mud-splattered till he made her laugh again. Tina, who belonged now to the dim and distant past of a few months ago.

Steven let the sea wind riffle his hair and stared out at the horizon. The house was burned to ashes. Memories and faces and tears and laughter all gone.

He was another Steven. In another life.

_"I'm Pippa," she says. She has kind eyes and a motherly smile. _

"Tom." His new foster father offers his hand, but he holds back, inhaling the canvas smell of the green rucksack clutched tightly to his chest. Since yesterday, all that he has left in the world.

He draws another shuddering breath and glances apprehensively at his social worker as they hear voices outside. The other foster kids arriving home from school. Pippa lightly rests her hand on his shoulder as if she understands all the trembling hidden inside. Tom doesn't take offence at his slight, but pulls open the door.

"Okay, guys, this is Steven, your new brother. Let's see how fast we can make him feel at home."

Home. So this is home now. This strange house, with new faces and new voices, with its high ceiling and mahogany pendulum clock, with its shabby but much-loved furniture and smell of home-baked scones piled high on the plate.

The music came to him again. Soft and melodic, then faster and faster, first drifting, then rushing towards him across the moonlit ocean, curling round his heart. A song without words, filled with memories and faces and tears and laughter. He smiled, reliving the memory of Tina and Jip, and then, suddenly remembering Frank again, sighed deeply into the restless wind. He was in heaps over taking the guitar.

-----

Scott Phillips stood outside the shed for a little while. He wasn't dill enough to go inside the house.  
He'd checked out the window and seen Mum lying in a bloodied heap on the floor and Dad still drinking. So it would be a night in the shed - slightly warmer than sleeping under the wooden bridge of the wharf and safe enough because Dad was too drunk to look for them - but, _oh, Jeez!_ Kane was freaking him out, sitting there all on his own, having whole conversations with himself.

Scott had seen something like this on a TV show once. _Is There REALLY Anybody Out There? _The show had been called. It was all about people who, even though everybody laughed at them, were convinced that they spoke to aliens or dead people or guys who lived in alternate universes. But this show took a different tack. _What if THEY were right and everybody who laughed at them was wrong?_ It asked. What if they really WERE talking to aliens?

Scotty shoved open the shed door and looked warily round. "You got anything to eat, drongo? I could eat a ------- horse and chase the jockey!"

Kane shook his head. He was starving too.

"Milko had steak, chips and berries for supper though," he said helpfully, thinking perhaps Scotty would be put in a better mood if he heard their prisoner was being well fed.

But it didn't have the desired effect. Scotty thumped him and Milko glared at him.

Scotty looked down at his stinging fist, half in satisfaction, half in fear. What if this Milko dude and his weirdo mates Deefa and Fred laid into him for thumping Kane? _For ----'s sake! _Now he was even _thinking _like his loopy kid brother! Scotty was fast reaching an inevitable conclusion. There was only one solution to the ever increasing insanity that was threatening to sweep him in its path too. Milko had to go...


	21. Chapter 21

**chapter 21**

Lance took a deep breath. "I think Milko's been kidnapped by the Phillips brothers, Kath. And they've told Sal they'll kill him if she lags."

Okay, he'd said it at last! He waited for her to fall about laughing. Either that or to stare at him like he'd lost the plot. No way would she be interested in him now. Who wanted to date a thicko? She was way, way out of his league anyway, what with letters after her name and qualifications and certificates in thingummyjig subjects that he couldn't even spell, let alone figure out the meaning of. But he'd had to say it. If anyone was intelligent enough to sort out the tangle little Sally seemed to be in, it was Kathy Murray.

"Lance, you're a genius!" Kathy reached across the Diner table and squeezed his hand in delight. Of course! Kane Phillips had acquired an invisible friend, by an amazing coincidence also called Milko, around the same time that little Sally Keating appeared to have lost him. And what about that strange conversation in the playground when Kane and Scott had hinted that Milko might drown? It all suddenly made perfect sense!

Lance blushed to the roots of his hair. "Waaall, I wouldn't go that far..." He protested bashfully, but pleased to see she was stoked. "I'm no Ernie Stein."

"Who?" Kathy asked blankly.

Lance shrugged. "Don't rightly know who he was, Kath. But I've heard he was a very, very clever bloke. Maybe he won heaps of TV quiz shows or somethin'."

"Or somethin'," Kathy agreed, smiling in gentle amusement as the penny suddenly dropped. Ernie Stein - _Einstein! _It was a mistake one of her own Summer Bay Primary students might have made, not a grown man.

But Kathy's heart lurched all the same. Lance may have been at the back of the queue when brains were being handed out, yet he was the sweetest guy she'd ever met. Why hadn't she ever noticed before how that kind, caring smile lit up his face and eyes and made a happy little knot tighten in her stomach?

Of course, Summer Bay being a small town, Kathy already knew who Lance Smart was, but they'd never exchanged more than two or three words until the day the flower garden had been trampled.

Kathy's much older colleague, Janice Drummond, suffered greatly from arthritis in her knee and, on particularly bad days, would need a walking stick to help her get around. Lance had happened to be passing by Summer Bay Primary just as she'd parked and, seeing her struggling to carry a box for a school project from her car, had offered to help. And so they came round the corner just as Kathy had discovered the damage.

"You know, we can fix this. And fast," Lance had said, as much for the kids' benefit as Kathy's. Some of the youngsters were sobbing their hearts out and, with only one exception, they were all obviously upset.

The exception was Kane Phillips, who was whistling under his breath as he surveyed the scene and watching Lance and Kathy out of the corner of his eye in case he overheard a snippet of information he could perhaps use to his advantage some time. Like his brother Scott, Kane was always on the alert to making a fast buck.

However, noticing that Kathy was just as angry and upset as her young pupils and probably needed to sound off, Janice had wisely begun to lead the children back inside. They could discuss the obvious vandalism in the staff-room later, where little ears didn't get to hear what they shouldn't.

Kathy glanced round, taking comfort from his strong, kind voice, but also feeling a stab of guilt. It was almost as if he knew about her secret deal with a national Australian newspaper. After all, the old, crumbling indoor games block at Summer Bay Primary, that also housed the locker rooms and even a small stage, had been condemned and was scheduled for imminent demolition. There being no money in the coffers to build a new block, the kids had no choice on rainy days but to sit at their desks inside stuffy classrooms during recess or games periods. Or maybe not...

...If...

...Kathy, as she had, arranged for a journalist to call on Summer Bay to write about the talent show as a human interest story...and showed same journalist round Summer Bay Primary...and people read of the kids' plight...and the newspaper started a fund-raising campaign...

But, having grown up in a rough, tough city, the young teacher was no naive backwoods country hick and she knew that papers could do just as much damage as they did good. News, Kathy realised, especially bad news, was what sold newspapers, not technicolour toytown all-is-well-with-the-world bedtime stories. She was well aware that if any journalist saw the ruined flower garden, he or she might decide instead to focus on the problems of vandalism in a little seaside town and give Summer Bay a publicity it could well do without.

Kathy decided to take Lance into her confidence and "'fess up" as one of her kids might say. Lance proved a willing listener.

"See, what we need are a few volunteers to help fix it," he said thoughtfully.

"But time's running out, Lance. How would we find volunteers fast enough?" Kathy asked worriedly. "This isn't a TV show. People have busy lives even in small towns."

"Oh, they don't have to do waste time doing boring stuff like volunteering!" Lance grinned. "I think we might save them all the bother and do the volunteering for them..." He and Kathy exchanged a conspiratorial look. Where kids were concerned, they were a formidable team.

Kathy smiled again. After the day the flower garden was ruined, they'd both been so busy with drumming up press-ganged "volunteers", repairing the damage and then preparations for the talent show that they hadn't had time to talk properly until now. But, despite their intellectual differences, Lance was kind and funny and loved kids as much as she did, and Kathy had a feeling that they'd share a great many more heart-to-hearts.

"You know, Lance, I wrote about kids and their imaginary friends as part of my thesis and even _I_ couldn't come up with that answer. But you understand what goes on in kids' heads. Better than anyone," she said in admiration. "And I think if _we_ put _our_ heads together, we just might be able to figure out a way to kidnap Milko back..."

----------

Perhaps there had been other starry summer nights as breathlessly beautiful as this one. But, if there were, Carly never knew them. All she knew was the breathless beauty of _this_ night as she and Zammo, arms entwined around each other, strolled along the silvery water's edge, their toes digging into the warm, gritty sand while the white foam of cold, quiet waves rolled gently across their bare feet.

For some reason, Carly felt more comfortable with Mike "Zammo" Langford than she'd ever felt with any other guy. Maybe there was something in going out with a guy her own age instead of trying to impress older guys who weren't interested, she thought, surprised to realise the world wasn't a bad place without the fog of alcohol to blur its sharp edges. Or maybe it was just something to do with being with Zammo, the way his voice sent tingles down her spine, the way he looked at her that made her heart patter furiously and her knees weak.

She squealed in delight as another rush of icy water ran over her toes.

"It's magic!" She laughed, looking up at the twinkling stars and down at the moonlight-tinged sea with the excitement of a small child. "I wish I'd tried kicking off my shoes and walking along the water's edge before."

"You've never done this before? Not even when you were a kid?" Zammo couldn't keep the astonishment out of his voice.

Carly shook her head. "We didn't leave close enough to the beach when I was a kid."

"But everywhere in Oz is close to a beach!" Zammo protested in surprise.

Carly smiled sadly. "My olds were always too busy to take us. And the au pairs we had to look after us...They never had time to take us to the beach either. They left as fast as they arrived. It wasn't Sammy's fault. It was mine."

Zammo heard the tears in the last three words and he pulled her closer.

_"Carly, stop that!" Judith said firmly, looking nine-year-old Carly straight in the eye. _

Carly gave a small, patient sigh. Didn't she know she COULDN'T stop? Oh, she knew she was spoiling the picnic. But then she was EXPECTED to spoil things, wasn't she? She always was.

The moment Judith had picked up the picnic bag ready to leave with her charges, Dad had warned Carly, "And don't you be bullying Sammy like you usually do."  
Mum and Dad were forever warning her about her bad behaviour before it actually happened. Carly felt she had to live up to it. Where else could all the anger inside her go?

"Yeh, well, tell Snotty Sammy not to LOOK at me like that!"

"I'll look at you how I want!" Her twin sister Sammy fired back, wrinkling her nose like Carly was a bad smell, and dusting off her shoulder the grass that Carly had just furiously thrown at her. "You're common as muck, Carly Morris, and you eat like..."

Carly snatched up another handful of grass.

"This might have ants in! I'm sure I saw some crawling!" She cried gleefully as she poured grass and soil over her twin's head, well aware that Sammy was terrified of all insects, but especially ants.

Poor Sammy jumped up, screaming, doing what looked like a funny little dance as she frantically tried to shake grass out of her hair, which made Carly cruelly laugh all the more.

"Sammy, Sammy, keep still! There aren't any ants! Carly was joking," Judith said, hugging the little girl to her.

Carly almost pitied her. Carly had seen off several au pairs. Judith was brand new to this looking after kids lark. She was around nineteen, fresh out of college with a clutch of impressive qualifications, and believed in doing everything by the book.

"Okay, Carly, that was your first warning," she said, looking sternly at her. "This is your second and last. Stop throwing grass at Sammy. Or your Mum and Dad will get to hear about it and there'll be no more picnics."

"So what?" Carly said defiantly.

Yeh, like her olds gave a stuff about her! She picked up a fistful of their empty food wrappings and, dodging round Judith, threw them over Sammy's head.

"It wasn't grass! It wasn't grass!" She yelled triumphantly to Judith. "But it's food so it'll DEFINITELY have ants in!" She added helpfully for Sammy's benefit, though Sammy was already screaming hysterically.

Of course, Judith left. The latest in a long line of childminders who couldn't cope with Carly. And yet again Dad predicted Carly would end up in jail and yet again Mum predicted that meanwhile Sammy would have a high-powered job. Maybe in fashion; she was so delicate, so pretty, so clever. And Carly would, they both agreed, end up dependant on drink and drugs, inadequate and alone, dividing her grown-up life between prison and living on welfare hand-outs.

Carly bit her lip to stop the tears at the bitter memories, glad of Zammo's arm round her. Life was so different now with Tom and Pippa Fletcher. They believed in her and, slowly, tentatively, Carly was beginning to believe in herself.  
"Hey, there's my bro just ahead!" She yelled, suddenly espying him. "Yo, Steven!" Carly wolf-whistled and yelled in a manner that would have horrified her parents and Sammy had they been there to witness it.

"Everything okay, mate? You look like you just lost a million bucks!" Zammo observed as they caught up with him.

Steven shrugged. "Oh, just got things on my mind."

"Yeh? Like the latest mathematical calculation to reach...oh, I dunno! Three trillion x squared equals xyz!" Carly grinned. She was hopeless at math and didn't have a clue what she was talking about.

Steven laughed, picking up on Carly's good humour. Normally they were at daggers drawn over something or other and the teasing would have been laced with acid. But it was easy to love the world, and even brothers, when you felt so loved. And Carly _did_ feel loved this breathlessly beautiful night. Sally and Lynn were safe. She had a home where she belonged and a family who cared about her. She had handsome Zammo, who made her knees weak and her heart patter furiously, walking her home.

She smiled warmly. "Guess being the smartest kid in Summer Bay High you like chewing over algebra and stuff. Your brain must be like a computer!"

Steven smiled weakly back. Carly hadn't meant anything by what she said. She was actually making a huge effort to be nice and for once the word geek hadn't even crossed her lips. But that was the trouble. He wasn't a robot. He was a human being. And being the smartest kid in Summer Bay High was the loneliest place on earth to be.

-----------

"So, okay, he took your guitar, but..." Jenny said.

"I'm not gonna lose face, Jen." Frank had inherited a lot from the man he admired most when he was young. His father Frankie didn't believe in losing face either. No matter how much trouble it caused.

Frank remembered the time Frankie Morgan had staggered home with a broken nose, two black eyes, several teeth knocked out and $500 out of pocket, and all because he'd refused to back down over a stupid argument, made when he and the guys he'd arranged the bet with had been pumped full of grog and that none of them could recollect with any particular clarity anyway.

Seven-year-old Frank had jumped out of bed and run downstairs immediately he heard his father cussing as he staggered home after a boozy night out. Dad's latest girlfriend, yet another shapely blonde with a prematurely aged face from too drinking and too many cigarettes, was puffing away on yet another cigarette and yelling at him to keep still while she tried to stem the flow of blood.  
But Frankie ignored her to turn to his son, drunkenly waving his arms to ward off the chick's attempts to bathe his injuries, although blood was flowing copiously down his nose and chin and seeping a large crimson patch into his shirt, to Frank's wide-eyed terror.

"You listen good and you remember, Frank. A Morgan never backs down. Don't matter what over. We got our pride and we don't back down. Not EVER."

Since then Frank had had another father figure to admire. Tom Fletcher lacked Frankie's swagger and aggression but, just like he had when Eddie Brookes had tried to gain a new customer with underhand practice, in his own quiet way Tom stood his ground too. But with one vital difference. Frankie Morgan didn't back down out of vanity. Tom Fletcher stood up for what he believed was right.

Frank often found himself torn in two. His loyalty to the father who loved him in his own way was unquestionable but, more and more, he couldn't help feeling Tom Fletcher's way of dealing with things was a far better way.

"You don't understand, Jen," he added, feeling he had to justify himself because his argument sounded so inadequate. "It's a guy thing."

Jenny glanced across the table at her older sister. Kathy was chatting animatedly with Lance and Jenny smiled as she noticed her smitten expression. Lance would never dream of breaking her heart and two-timing her like her last boyfriend, madly-in-love-with-himself Robert "scumbag" Jenkins had. Jenny may have been youngest, but she'd always felt fiercely protective of soft-hearted Kathy. And she understood far more than Frank realised. It wasn't a guy thing. It was a _family_ thing.

Living in the shadow of a sibling who breezed through school and then uni while you struggled to string two sentences together to produce a half decent essay was no fun. And yet Jenny saw something else.

"You know, Frank, it's tough being perfect," she said quietly.

"What?" Frank spluttered with laughter, genuinely believing she was having a lend of him.

"I'm serious. Think about it. You and me, we got it easy. We flunk an exam and nobody's surprised. But If Kath or Steven ever flunked an exam there'd probably be a world international outcry at Prime Minister's Question Time - well, okay, not _quite._ But _almost." _She added, seeing his frown. "So Steven took the guitar. So big deal. Maybe he just wanted some time out from all the pressure on him."

"Yeh, well, you don't know this jerk." Frank plucked absently on the strings of said guitar resting on his lap. "He's been picking on little Sal since day one. What'd little Sal ever do to him?"

"Oh, right. So that makes it okay for you to pick on him?"

Frank sighed. Jenny made him feel ashamed of himself. Using fists was Frankie Morgan's way and Frank was a better person than that. Living with the Fletchers had taught him that violence was never a solution.

"Okay, okay, you win! I _won't_ bash Steven for taking the guitar."

"Thanks! I always suspected you were a much nicer guy than the dropkick you keep pretending to be!" Jenny teased, jumping up and kissing him quickly on the cheek as she snatched the guitar out of his arms. "What's it worth to get it back?"

Frank laughed. Steven Matheson didn't seem very important when he was with a beautiful girl with mischievously sparkling eyes and his cheek still tingling deliciously from where she had kissed him. Oh, but Frank hadn't forgotten he owed Steven! And he had another plan. A much better one. Like he'd promised Jenny, Steven wasn't going to get bashed. But he wasn't going to get off scot free either...


	22. Chapter 22

**chapter 22 **

OLD FRIENDS

Lynn had been awake long before breakfast. She swallowed the last spoonful of boiled egg and looked round at the little private ward. Yellow sunlight filtered gently through the blinds, cheerful bouquets of flowers scented the air with their beautiful fragrance and, scattered among the ward's furniture, were chocolates, toiletries and small gifts, bottles of fruit juice, a brand new matching nightdress, dressing gown and slippers, crossword books, CDs, magazines and the largest basket of fruit she had ever seen. And then the get well cards! So many that one of the nurses had put a long piece of string around the walls to be used as a makeshift card holder.

A lump came suddenly to her throat. It was as though she _mattered._ Lynn had never felt as though she mattered before.

Growing up in a family of ten, it was easy to be overlooked. She had never forgotten the time when she was six and Mum had dished up one of her delicious stews, filled with heaps of barley and potatoes cooked in their skins, and asked if anyone wanted seconds.

Now Mrs Davenport was a fantastic cook (oh, Pippa tried, she really did; but, like painting, cooking wasn't Pippa's strong point, though everyone loved to hear her telling of her mishaps in the kitchen and cried with laughter as they ate, glad that Tom had rescued yet another almost ruined dinner) and Lynn's brothers and sisters immediately held out plates they'd scraped clean while poor Lynn burst into tears and exclaimed, "But I haven't had firsts yet!"

Which had made everyone laugh and fuss over her. Funny how, whenever she ran away, she always remembered the laughter and not the fussing. But she remembered it now.

Mum had put her arm round her, kissed her hair and said, "My little angel Lynn! Always the quietest. How could I have missed my little angel?"

What really amazed Lynn was that, _as well as _Pippa, Tom and her foster brothers and sisters, her own Mum and Dad had visited! And not just Mum and Dad either, but two of her four sisters and three of her six brothers (the rest being too young). The hospital staff, who could only let her visitors in two at a time, said that Lynn was so popular they suspected she was related to royalty but was keeping quiet about it. In fact, the kindly doctor with the thick sandy hair remarked to the nurse, when they'd done the blood test on her admission, it had definitely been blue...but, seeing Lynn's horrified expression, and remembering that her foster parents had warned Lynn believed everything she was told, he gently explained that he'd been joking.

The portable television that her eldest brother Simon had brought in specially for her was repeating one of her favourite programmes, but Lynn found the luxury of watching TV on her own wasn't half as much fun as watching _with_ someone. And yet, not so long ago, she'd have given anything to have a room of her own! Even at Pippa's, she had to share with Carly, and while she didn't mind_ too much_, Carly being so sophisticated, she envied Sally being small enough to have the tiny boxroom all to herself.

It was strange, she thought, how she was suddenly missing sharing with her sisters. Was Denise still telling her wonderful ghost stories and Wendy still clicking the torch on and off to make scary shadows for the three younger girls? Were Susie and Sophie still fighting over who's turn it was to sleep in the top bunk? Did Denise and Wendy, who, as eldest, were lucky enough to be only _two_ to a room, still have all their pictures of "good looking hunks" on the whole of one side of their bedroom wall and was Dad still sighing, _"All my hard work decorating, ruined by pictures of silly boys who need to get proper jobs instead of all this cissy acting and singing!" _(But said with a good-natured tolerance; after all, he had five daughters.)

Old Lizzie had been yet another visitor, her arms red from permanent damage to her skin when, as a young girl of fifteen, she'd accidentally scalded herself in the Laundry one afternoon, in the days when sheets still had to be soaked in hot, soapy tubs, long before labour-saving devices such as automatic washing machines were invented.

Lizzie was retired now (a paper sift of staff records had discovered that Lizzie should actually have retired fifteen years earlier) but she kept herself busy these days by working voluntarily, part-time as a cleaner at the local church, in the little town she'd left so long ago to work in the Children's Home.

Lizzie was thoroughly enjoying all the town gossip, which she gleefully imparted to Lynn, as though Lynn knew everyone personally, from the news that senior citizens' local heartthrob Tommy Wilson dyed his greying hair black (Vera Quinn, Lizzie's great friend, had noticed the tell-tale black dye on his hands when Tommy had been in church) to the rumour Jack Brentwood was giving up a place at Uni to stay at home and help his girlfriend Sarah Potts start her dream of opening up a little seafront café.

She had made the long journey by bus when she heard that Lynn and Sally were in hospital (Pippa having promised faithfully to keep her in touch about Lynn and little Sally) and had barely stopped talking or even to eat from the moment she arrived.

"Sorry. No time to eat," old Lizzie said, when Tom invited her to the hospital canteen with them to wait while Sally was being given some final tests prior to being allowed home and Lynn's next visitors were being ushered in. "My bus back is in half an hour."

"But you can't travel back at this time of night!" Pippa said, aghast. "You must stay with us. It'll be a bit of a squash, but it _is_ only for one night."

Lizzie sighed longingly. "I'd love to, Pippa. I really would. But I'm so tired I can't stay awake a moment longer. The bus stops just outside the hospital gates and I was hoping to have a nice sleep on the journey."

"I've a better idea," Tom said. "I'll book you a room at The Grand. It's a nice, quite little hotel, reasonable rates, and they do excellent late night snacks and a great brekkie. I'll ring a taxi right now to take you there."

"No taxis," Lizzie said firmly. "I'm not a taxi person. Or hotels. I'm not a hotel person either. Thank you all the same."  
"But, Lizzie, don't be silly, you can't possibly travel back now!" Pippa protested, thinking Lizzie was being unreasonably stubborn. "It would be the early hours before you even reached home. And, what's more, you could do with a good, square meal. If you won't come back with us, then Tom will book you into the Grand, and that's the end of it."

Lizzie looked sheepish. "I've no money for food or taxis or hotels," she finally admitted. "I only had enough money to buy a return bus ticket. But I just _had_ to come and see if Lynn and Sally were alright."

"Oh, Lizzie!" Pippa impulsively flung her arms around her. The old lady reminded her so much of Granny Brenda, who although exhausted, had sat up late knitting Mrs Martha for her granddaughter. She lowered her voice to her whisper. "Look, we don't tell everyone because we're not supposed to do this, but there's a spare room at the hospital, a disused ward, that we keep specially for friends. And, just think, if you stayed, you could even watch and vote in the Summer Bay talent contest tomorrow."

Lizzie blushed proudly at the hug and even more proudly at the invitation. "You want _me_ to come to watch the talent contest? And vote?"

Pippa smiled gently. "Lynn and Sally would be stoked to have you there! We all would."

And so it was settled. A blind eye was turned by all, a bed was made up for old Lizzie, and the hospital staff fussed round her, making sure she had everything she needed. After years of waiting on other people, Lizzie said she felt like a queen at being waited on herself.

Like Lynn, Lizzie was touched to realise that there were so many people who loved her.

"Look! It's them!" Sally cried.

Pippa and Tom had gone to collect Lynn from the hospital and, as they wanted to give Lynn some quality time with them as they'd done with their youngest foster daughter, Lance and Kathy had volunteered to take Sally for a stroll along the beach.

Sally was busy collecting prettily-coloured sea shells. Carly had promised, if Sally collected enough, she would show her how to make things like sea shell wind chimes and sea shell necklaces and she was looking forward to sitting down with her older sister later. Carly had been really nice to her lately (she'd even asked how Milko was and, although Sally had replied, as she always did nowadays since Milko had been kidnapped and anyone asked after him, _"As well as can be expected under the circumstances, thank you" _Carly hadn't laughed, but had nodded quite seriously and said she hoped he got better and up out of bed soon).

Secretly, Sally was a little worried about Carly. First, down on the beach with Lynn and Sally, she'd imagined Milko had been kicking the water and now she thought he was crook and all tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle! Of course Sally knew it couldn't possibly have been Milko when he was kidnapped. She'd have to tell Pippa about Carly imagining things, she thought, and let Pippa decide what to do.

Although the day was calm and Lance and Miss Murray sensible enough not to go too near the water's edge, Sally hadn't forgotten to keep watch on the terrible sea. It might have _looked_ calm, but she knew you couldn't trust it for a second and, just to be sure everyone was kept safe, every now and then she would blink ten times. No more and no less or the spell wouldn't work. She clunked a large pink shell into the bucket she was carrying and opened and closed her eyes ten times exactly, watching through the rapid blinks as the trio approached.

They were all walking along together.

Scotty was skimming stones at birds, Kane was watching curiously to see if he managed to hit any, and Milko was jauntily tossing a cent into the air and catching it, not a care in the world. While poor Sally had been fretting over him! She bit her lip and held Mrs Martha tightly to her.

Lance exchanged a look with Kathy. Now was their chance!

"The Phillips brothers!" He exclaimed. "I was wondering when we were gonna catch up with 'em."

"And Milko," Sally added, very surprised that Lance hadn't noticed him.

She expected as much of other people, but Lance knew all about things like jumping jellybeans, and how you should always scare away fish you didn't want to catch by making as much noise as you possibly could so that they didn't hook themselves on to the fishing rod. Most grown-ups were too stupid to know about things like that, but not Lance!

Lance thought unusually quickly and winked at Kathy . "Of course! He's been with 'em both for so darn long, damned if I wasn't starting to think he was a Phillips brother too!"

"Milko's seen us!" Sally announced, as Milko suddenly looked up on hearing her voice.

So had Kane and Scott. All three ground to an abrupt halt.

"He ain't goin' back," Kane said warily, realising by their expressions and by Sally's observation that the game was up. "He likes hanging out with us."

"I think we better let Milko decide this one," Lance said, desperately hoping his idea would work. "Okay, Milko, think about this carefully. Who's your _very best _mate?"

It was a tense few moments. Sally drew a sharp breath and looked hopefully at Milko. Kane glared at Milko in silent threat. Kathy locked her fingers in Lance's, and, like Lance had done, followed Sally's gaze. Scotty stared in bafflement at the empty spot all four were gazing at and wondered if everyone had gone crazy and if he was the only sane person left in the whole of Australia.

Nobody could know who Milko would choose.

And then the sun slipped behind a cloud, casting a dark shadow across the sand, cold wind whipped up from the sea, sending shivers down the little boy's spine, and his mother's voice suddenly seemed to come whispering on the breeze. _"You don't have nothin' in this life, Kaney, so you just have to take it."_

"Milko ain't goin' back," he said again. Through clenched teeth.

_Richie had finally gone asleep, almost comatose, drugged up to the eyeballs and drunk as a skunk. _

Bruised and bleeding from his blows, Diane had limped outside to tell the kids it was finally safe to come inside and sleep in their own beds instead of hiding out in the garden shed. And not before time, she thought. Poor Kaney and Scotty looked pale and exhausted and both had large bags under their eyes, having had to spend the previous night outside to escape their father's violence.

Little Kane had dried blood matted in his hair, probably from some fall or other, though Scott slyly dug his fist in his ribs when his mother commented on it. Diane ran them both a hot bath, washed the blood and filth out of Kane's hair and gave them a light supper of tinned spaghetti on toast. They even managed to watch some TV together undisturbed, the sound kept down to a minimum and the door kept closed. Kane and Scott crept around, young as they were, understanding it was essential they didn't wake Dad.

Diane herself barely slept. She spent the night on the couch, trying in vain to find some position that wouldn't hurt her broken bones more, while her husband, stretched out luxuriously on the bed upstairs, snored and snorted like a pig,.

Although she was aching badly, she still carried out her usual morning routine to avoid his wrath, emptying the overflowing ash-tray, picking up emptied tinnies and the remains of the Chinese takeaway that he'd brought home with him last night, the cold food and its wrappings now strewn over the floor and bed.

Richie gave an unusually loud snore and she paused to stare at him in disgust.

Saliva had run down his open mouth, gravy stained his shirt and he stank of last night's booze, fags and sweat. A half finished can of strong lager had fallen out of his hand and spilled its contents on to the floor, two more empty cans had rolled under the bed and stubs of cigarettes that hadn't made the ashtray had been flattened into the threadbare carpet.

Richie had already bashed her for giving the kids the bacon. And no doubt when he woke he'd remember it all over again and bash her all over again. A surge of fury ran through her. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound!

So she gave the kids brekkie again.

Heaps of it, when they came downstairs looking like different kids, scrubbed, clean and bright-eyed, refreshed from a proper night's sleep and a half decent supper, wearing the clean clothes that she had laid out for them last night.

Instead of dishing out their usual cheap cereal and thinly-buttered toast, Mum was frantically opening tins, flinging open the larder and fridge and tearing packets as though her very life depended on it. Kane and Scott sat watching her, open-mouthed in astonishment. And hungry. They were always hungry. Meal times in the Phillips household were hit and miss affairs. Sometimes you got them, sometimes you didn't.

"Fruit-caaaake time!" Scotty said to Kane under his breath in a sing-song voice.

Kane stared at him, wide-eyed. Cakes! There were there were going to be cakes as well! "D' ya think Ma'll mind if I eat the cakes before the other stuff, Scotty?" He whispered, worried he might miss out.

But he couldn't figure out the answer because Scotty only kicked him and said he was a jerk.

Diane had never grilled anything in her life and the Phillips didn't own a microwave. Everything was chopped or cut and stirred or fried at breakneck speed. Fresh mushrooms tumbled out of a paper bag and, before they'd had a chance to take in their new surroundings, were sliced and sizzling in the large frying pan. Baked beans, with typical baked bean laziness, fell reluctantly into a saucepan and found themselves heating on the gas before they were barely out of the tin. Double eggs, fried bread, several rashers of Dad's best bacon, two fat sangas each, even fried sliced potatoes. The plates were heaving under the weight.

"Once you've had brekkie though you gotta go out and stay out." She was in for the hiding of her life. But she didn't care. It was worth it to see her sons' faces when the food was put before them.

"Will Dad be okay with ya? About us havin' brekkie?" Kane anxiously looked up at her inbetween shovelling mouthfuls of food down his throat in case Dad woke up any moment and snatched it away. The smell had been enough to whet his appetite; he could sort out the expected fruitcake dessert later.

She pinched his cheek gently, smiling sadly.

"You don't have nothin' in this life, Kaney, so you just have to take it," she said in a funny kind of throaty voice.

He knew she'd be bashed for it. That was why she'd sent them out again. And the bashing would make her cry and he hated for her to cry. But he'd let his hunger win out.

Milko shook his head in disgust, obviously remembering how Kane had eaten all the bacon that led to Mum getting bashed too. Kane shuffled and looked up at the darkened sky. He didn't want to look at the freak in case she cried again and reminded him of his Mum, who was no doubt being bashed again right now. Scotty always said he was too sooky, but he couldn't help it.

Kane Phillips had turned away! Milko winked at Sally, put his finger to his lips and took five gigantic steps forward on his long, skinny legs.

A smile lit up Sally's face. "Milko!" She exclaimed happily as at last he stood beside her, grinning. "I'm so glad you're back!"

"I'm glad to _be_ back!" Milko said, with a bow and a flourish of his hat.

It was over! And it was all his own fault for being sooky! Scotty was always telling him not to be sooky and he should have listened. He'd turned his back for a second and Milko had gone.

And now Scotty was asking, to Kane's horror, "Yeh, well, what about Deefa and Fred? If you're taking Milko, you better take them too."

"No _waaay!" _Kane protested breathlessly.

"Who?" Lance asked, startled. He hadn't bargained on there being anyone else. Lance's brain had barely got round dealing with the kidnapping of one.

"Milko's invisible mates," Scott supplied helpfully.

Milko had invisible mates? He'd never told her! Sally stared at him, wondering what else he'd kept from her, but Milko put his hands in his pockets, began whistling and pretended to be engrossed in watching the rippling waves.

He was wearing a hat Sally had never seen before. Red and black, with a yellow circle like the sun as a motif, just like the Australian Aboriginal Flag (Sally had been learning about flags at school that week and so recognised it at once).

There were lots of things she didn't know about Milko, she suddenly realised. Like where did he get all his hats from? And was his favourite food _really_ steak, chips and berries or had he just invented that? And had he _really_ gone surfing all the times he said he had or had he go off with the Phillips brothers to shoplift or throw stones at people from the bridge over the wharf, splashing himself with water just before he came back to fool Sally into thinking he'd been off riding the waves on his surfboard?

"What do they look like?" Kathy asked carefully.

"Uh...a dog and a dragon, ain't they?" Scott asked Kane, who nodded miserably.

"Recognise them, Sal?" Lance asked gravely.

Sally shook her head. "They're not mine!" She admitted honestly.

"Don't matter. You can have 'em," Scotty offered, with uncharacteristic generosity. After watching that TV show,_ Is There REALLY Anybody Out There?_ he wasn't taking any chances!  
"Scott, you can't give away Kane's invisible friends! If they're Kane's, then they must stay with Kane." Feeling as if she'd just been dropped into some kind of surreal universe, Kathy was playing it by ear. Her thesis on kids and their invisible friends had been very thorough and much acclaimed, but in all her research she'd never before come across a situation where kids apparently traded their invisible friends with each other.

"Guess," Scott shrugged.

Kane managed a weak grin as Deefa and Fred yelled _"Yesss!" _and high-fived each other with their paws. At least, he thought, he got to keep Deefa and Fred, even if Milko _had_ deserted him.

"Your mate Milko's a dag anyway," Scott remarked, for the hell of it, and grinned in satisfaction when he achieved his objective of seeing Sally's face crumple.

"Look," Kathy said, as Lance put a comforting arm round Sally. "There's no point in arguing like this. It just makes everyone unhappy. You could all be friends. Why don't you both come with us to watch the talent show later? Lance is going to sing in it," she added proudly, making Lance blush.

Scott and Kane looked at each other and guffawed. "You think we're as dorky as her and him?" Scott demanded in disbelief.

Kathy sighed. The Phillips boys were clean and well dressed; they didn't seem to be hungry, particularly tired or unusually afraid, the giveaway signs of neglect that might suggest something in their homelife was responsible for their behaviour. Their father was, as everybody knew, workshy and dabbled in small time crime, such as fiddling welfare benefits or "accidentally" forgetting to pay in a shop, but nothing too serious. And, while he was a drinker, so were many of the men in the rough, tough town of Summerhill where the Phillips lived. Kathy never saw the bruises hidden beneath their clothes and their mentally ill mother never collected them from school. Richie was too smart to allow that.

"Well, if you change your minds later, I'll buy you an ice cream each at the show," she said.

Fruitcake _and_ ice cream! Kane hoped Scotty _would_ change his mind later. Maybe Mum hadn't been bashed after all and it would turn out to be quite a good day, even if Milko _had_ gone off with the freak. And maybe they could even kidnap him back again at the talent show...

But Kathy, Lance and Sally were barely out of sight before Scott turned to his younger brother

"Say goodbye to your hallucinations, drongo. Either they go back to La-La Land right now or I beat you to a pulp."

Kane looked at him, alarmed by his chilling tones and vaguely puzzled by what some mysterious chick called Lucy Nations had to do with all this. _"Where?" _

"Over the water, drongo! Don't you know nothin'?"

Realisation dawned. "You can't do this, Scotty. The guys just lost their best mate an' all. And I dunno if they can swim..._Can_ you swim, guys?"  
Deefa and Fred exchanged worried looks and then turned to Kane anxiously. Deefa nodded slowly (although he was only a puppy, he was always the more sensible of the two) while Fred nervously puffed out red and orange flames.

"Go! Go on, ya drongos! ---- off!" Scotty knew he would never live it down, if anyone saw him now, talking to the air and shooing "them" off like this, but he had to convince Kane.

Tears shone in the little boy's eyes. "They're my mates, Scotty!" He croaked. "You can't send them away!"

"Tough! They're goin', jerk!"

When Scotty said something, it was done. Shivering, Deefa and Fred reluctantly took to the cold water. Kane could only watch helplessly until they were dots on the horizon. And then they were gone. Forever. There was nothing anymore. Nothing but all this hurt and emptiness inside.

He curled his fist around a large stone he'd picked up and hurled it furiously at the cruel world.

"Good shot!" Scotty roared.

And that was when he realised he'd hit something. A small mongrel dog yelped in pain and shot off in terror towards its owner, its tail curled round its legs.

"Run!" Scotty yelled, laughing, as the dog owner spotted them.

They only stopped running when the man, panting, had to give up the chase to see to his injured and bleeding dog.

_You don't have nothin' in this life, Kaney, so you just have to take it_

So Kane would. Milko, Deef and Fred had all gone so he wouldn't be a sook anymore. He'd be like Scotty. Always.

"That was one hell of a shot!" Scott said in admiration.

"Yeh. It was," he grinned proudly back. "What should try hitting next?"


	23. Chapter 23

**chapter 23**

"Go on!" Milko said. He was sitting beside Sally, watching with her as Carly showed them how to make the sea shell necklace. "Ask her!"

Sally pulled a face, but Milko kept insisting and anyway Sally was curious to know herself. Until Kane Phillips nobody else had ever said they could see Milko. But Carly had claimed she could too. Milko was getting very big-headed about being so popular.

"Carly," the little girl said at last, very gently, remembering this might all be a "figment of her imagination", as the reports at the Home had always written about Sally. Of course Sally knew _her_ Milko wasn't. But Carly's Milko might well be and Sally knew from experience, from the way doctors and psychologists and social workers had spoken to Sally herself about it, that for some reason you had to speak very, very gently when you asked the question, and add the usual term of endearment at the end. "Can you see where Milko is _now_, dear?"

Carly looked up in amusement from threading string through the pin prick holes she'd made in the shells with a strong, sharp needle and, stricken by guilt that she was checking out her older sister's delicate mental state, Sally had to look away. She gazed outside, at the perfect blue sky, to where Steven was mowing the lawn round the caravan site, the chore he should have done last week, wondering why he looked so sad.

"Sure, Sal!" Carly replied, deciding to humour her. She looked towards where Sally was looking. "There he is! Standing by the window." Without giving it a second thought, she bent her head again to concentrate on the delicate work.

Sally and Milko exchanged knowing glances. Milko was sitting right there at the table, not standing by the window. Carly really _was_ imagining things!

"Best pack up now anyway, kid. I'm meeting Zammo soon. There! How's that?" Carly tied the finished seashell necklace round a delighted Sally's neck. She had to shout for her little sister to hear. The constant whirring of the mower had been drowned out further now by the buzz of a saw to accompany the racket of hammering and intermittent whistling from upstairs.

Pippa was always complaining about a lack of storage space so Tom and Frank, neither of whom ever needed an excuse to fix, paint or build anything, had decided to make some shelving and wall cupboards and put them up the main bedroom.

It seemed everyone was ultra busy today. Carly and Sally had barely finished scooping the seashells back into their plastic bag when Pippa suddenly gave a little scream mixed in with a laugh and they ran into the kitchen to find out what had happened.

Tears of laughter spilled down old Lizzie's wrinkled cheeks while Lynn stood by Pippa, looking down in horror at one of two baking trays newly removed from the oven.

Lizzie, Pippa and Lynn had been busy baking all morning. Pippa, the world's worst cook, had rashly promised a selection of cakes of the highest standard would be baked in time for the buffet to follow that afternoon's talent contest, and had needed to recruit Lizzie and Lynn to help.

"You put too much jam in," Carly told Lynn, surveying both baking trays, one with such perfect jam tarts they could have come straight out of a TV commercial, the other a sorry-looking affair with jam seeped out from under the pastry lids and burnt on to the metal at every angle.

"I know!" Pippa sighed. "Lynn and Lizzie _did_ try to tell me, but I wouldn't listen. I insisted it wasn't enough."

"Pippa! They're yours?" Carly squealed with laughter.

"The good ones are Lynn's. I'm hopeless." Pippa winked and shrugged humorously at Sally.

"Don't be downhearted, Pippa. One can't expect to be excellent at everything one does," Sally said primly, quoting her grandmother the day Sally had been so very disappointed not to have been able to make paper chains from the crepe paper that she'd asked Gran to buy specially and the arthritis in Gran's hands preventing her grandmother from helping out. "And you're very best at being a Mum."

"Why, thank you, sweetheart!" Pippa wiped away a tear, swallowed the lump in her throat and dusted the flour from her hands to hug Sally to her waist.

Unfortunately, Pippa had been concentrating so hard on the baking that she had forgotten all about the flour that was still on her apron and Sally giggled helplessly as she caught sight of her reflection in a shiny ornamental copper pan hanging on the kitchen wall. Her face was covered in so much flour that she looked like a friendly little ghost!

"She's right, you know," Carly whispered, turning from her rifling of the fridge and, before anyone could stop her, snatching one of Lizzie's secret recipe apple cakes, fluffy and still slightly warm after its brief sojourn on the cooling tray, her brown eyes shining with affection. "The very best. But, Pip, I don't think you better try baking anymore! Remember the rock cakes?"

"Cheek!" Pippa laughed, flicking some cake mixture from the wooden spoon at her.

The rock cakes were notorious in Fletcher family history. Nobody ever found out exactly what Pippa had done wrong to make them turn out even harder than they were _meant _to be, but Tom lost a tooth and Lynn and Sally, who found them too hard to bite into but were too shy to say so, it being their first meal in the Fletcher house before they stayed over, had been discovered, much to their embarrassment and Pippa's amusement, feeding them to the birds in the garden. Except the birds, after pecking ineffectually at the crumbs, couldn't eat them either...

After that, whenever anyone was about to try something new, such as when Lynn agreed to accompany Carly on a particularly fast white-knuckle ride or Frank had the daunting task of returning a hugely expensive car to Dawson's Garages' wealthiest customer, someone would inevitably shout in gleeful warning, _"Remember the rock cakes!"_

The cake mixture missed. Carly had already made good her escape.

-----

Frank took the stub of a pencil from behind his ear and measured the line drawn on the wall.

"Yup! That should do fine!" He informed his foster father. Tom nodded, raised the newly-sawn wooden shelf and screwed it into place.

Sweating from their labours, they both stood back to admire their handiwork with justifiable pride.

"Grand job, mate!" Tom said, peeling the ring from a can of lager and passing a second can to Frank.

Banned from the kitchen while the baking session took place, they had had to resort to standing the cans in a bowl of cold water in lieu of a fridge and Tom spluttered as the much-longed-for drink slid down his throat and left a tepid taste instead of the anticipated iciness.

"Best forget this stuff, Frank," he added. "I'll shout you a beer after the show instead. Though, if you're seeing your girl, we'll take a rain check. I'm sure you'd rather spend time with Jenny than your olds."

Frank grinned. He had only very recently turned eighteen and enjoyed being treated as an adult. A whole decade spent with the Fletchers! Funny how he'd arrived here a scared little kid.

He remembered sitting under the table, screaming, having just smashed every dish and pelted them with handfuls of food, even trampling bits into the carpet with his heels and thudding his fists down on the floor.

_He wanted them to be angry, to banish him forever. In his mixed up mind, he saw himself being thrown into a prison cell, reunited at last with his beloved Dad. His beloved Dad, who'd told him to do everything these foster people said, and he would, he'd do anything for his Dad - but these foster people jerks hadn't told him he COULDN'T smash plates and throw food about and scream, had they? _

So he sat on the floor and he screamed, and he clung on to the table leg for dear life so that he'd be ready for when they tried to pull him up in fury. It was hard to believe that only yesterday, the day that had begun like any other, but it had ended with the cops taking away his Dad...

Frankie Morgan stood looking into the mirror of the bathroom cabinet, his chest bare, his chin full of shaving foam, singing Bat Out of Hell. It was one of their favourite rock songs. He turned and grinned as his small son climbed up on the side of the bath and joined in the singing.

Both father and son shared a deep love of music. Frankie Morgan finished shaving, fetched the guitar, pulled down the toilet seat to sit on, and together they sang a whole repertoire of rock.

Eventually Laura, Dad's latest chick, came storming in, wearing nothing more than a flimsy nightie that made Frankie grin as he looked her appreciatively up and down, though little Frank was innocently more interested in the unremoved make-up that had streaked on her face and in wondering why ladies painted their faces.

"For ----'s sake, Frankie!" She snatched a cigarette from the packet nearby and lit up. "I can do without that bloody racket when my head's still banging from last night!"

Frank watched, impressed, as his father wrapped his arms around her neck, smiled into her eyes some kind of secret smile that seemed to work magic because she smiled back and said mysteriously, "Make me brekkie then. Scrambled egg, toast, OJ, coffee. Black. And I might think about it."

Frank never figured grown-ups when he was eight. All he knew was he wanted to be exactly like his father. But it had all gone wrong this terrible day, when all he'd done was take the gun out of the drawer to rob a bank like Dad did, while Dad and Laura had been making out downstairs.

And now here he was, screaming and yelling "I want my Dad! I want my Dad, you ------- b------s!" as he clung on to the table leg, waiting for them to forcibly remove his vice like grip and call the cops to have him thrown unceremoniously into the cell where his father was.

But nothing happened. Nothing at all.

And, after a while, he was hungry and he pulled out the chair and sat back down and Pippa dished out some more casserole and asked if there was any of the veg that he didn't like because, if there was, she'd try and shake if off the ladle. And he felt bad for a minute, that he'd made the foster people jerks sad. But only for a minute. He told himself he had to remember they were the enemy; he had to get back to his Dad as soon as he could.

He woke in the middle of the night, to an unnatural coldness in his bed and a terrible realisation that his pyjama bottoms were soaking wet, and he sobbed to himself in discomfort and embarrassment. He was eight years old, for Crissakes! He hadn't wet the bed since he was a tiny kid. He pictured the mates he'd left behind in his previous life, pictured them laughing if they'd known and sobbed all the more. And, worse, the foster people jerks overheard his sobbing.

Tom changed the bedding and Pippa sat with him though his small fists pummelled her arms and stomach, but she just held him tight in a motherly hug till, finally, overcome by exhaustion, he flopped against her.

Music was the only thing that calmed him. Somehow, though he never told them because he refused to speak unless he absolutely had to, they found out and somehow the music centre was playing far more frequently than it used to be.

Tom had a large collection of CDs and, though his taste veered mainly towards country and western and blues, there was a sprinkling of the good, solid heavy rock that Frank knew and loved.  
Strangely, suddenly the likes of Tom's isolated Queen and Rolling Stones CDs, hitherto busy gathering dust at the back of the CD cabinet, were given major air play. Frank said nothing about it and neither did they. He ate their food, watched their TV, disdainfully threw any toys they gave him straight into the bin, and made it clear that he despised them.

One evening Tom gave him an old transistor radio and said, as it was school holidays this week, he could listen to it under his pillow and he'd trust him not to stay awake too late. Frank called him a "------- drongo" and hurled the radio against the wall.

Tom only shrugged, turned on his heel and left the room, leaving Frank alone to stare at the broken radio in confusion and regret as it dawned on him he was the only one who'd suffered.

Next day Tom produced the mended radio and said exactly the same thing. And this time Frank's curiosity got the better of him. His father, though he tried, was hopeless at mending anything. Frankie Morgan even managed to fuse the lights when he changed a blown bulb.

"How d'ya do that? Make it good as new?"

Tom smiled and said he liked fixing things.

"So do I!" Frank revealed, caught off guard, forgetting he had made up his mind never to speak to the foster people jerks.

"So does Pippa, mate," Tom said with a grin.

And Frank allowed himself the smallest of grins back though he wasn't sure why he was grinning. From what he'd seen of her efforts trying to paint a simple undercoat on the under-the-stairs cupboard, Pippa was about as handy as his Dad had been. Anyhow, though he kept the radio, the grin disappeared almost as soon as it hit his face, to be quickly replaced by his usual scowl. Couldn't have these foster people jerks thinking they'd won. They'd never win. Frank was going back to his Dad and that was that.

-----

_"You can talk to me and Pip about anything, mate. Never forget that." _

"You're not disappointed?" Frank asked Tom anxiously. He'd been living with the Fletchers for five years now. They were no longer "foster people jerks" to him. They were Tom and Pippa. People he looked up to.

"Son, we'll never be disappointed in you. If anything, I'm proud of you for having the guts to 'fess up."

Frank bit his lip. Ironically, wanting to make them proud had been the reason behind his cheating. He constantly struggled with the work at Summer Bay High and it had been too good an opportunity to miss when he was asked to fetch Miss Young's forgotten wristwatch from the classroom.  
He'd accidentally knocked over a half-finished bottle of mineral water and had pulled open the desk drawer to look for something to mop up the spill. The exam papers stared back at him.

Drawing a deep breath, Frank ran the paper through the photocopier at the back of the classroom and later painstakingly memorised every question and answer, vaguely thinking how glad he was to have done so. None of the questions seemed to relate to anything they'd covered in history!

But it weighed heavily on his mind and he heaved a sigh of relief after he told Tom what he'd done. Frankie Morgan had always got by on his wits, but it wasn't the way Tom and Pippa did things and more and more he was impressed with Tom and Pippa's way instead of his father's.

As it happened, Frank needn't have worried because the exam papers turned out to be for another class. He got a lecture from Flathead Fisher and the satisfaction of an honest mark. Not a good one, but much higher than he'd expected.

-----

Recalling the incident, Frank opened his mouth, about to tell Tom something, when Carly poked her head round the door. "I'm your angel of mercy!" She announced. "Look what I robbed from the fridge before I had to do a runner!"

"Angel of mercy! Don't think the description fits you somehow, Carl!!" Frank laughed, gratefully accepting the proffered can of ice cold diet coke.

"Okay, I'm psychic," Carly said. "Nah, okay, I'll tell the truth," she added, as though she thought there might actually be a possibility of them believing the psychic claim. "I got them for me but I overheard you moaning about warm beer so I took pity and made the ultimate sacrifice."

"Thanks, Carl! Appreciated," Tom said. It _was_ truly a sacrifice - Carly was a diet coke addict! "But I won't even ask why you had to do a runner!"

"Best not," Carly grinned. "Don't forget, bro, we're meeting Zammo and Jenny at the Diner. And I claim the bathroom as of now!"

"Women!" Tom said, man to man. "Anyway, have a great time this arvo. You deserved a day off from Dawson's after all your hard work there and at college. And it's been real good of you to spend all morning helping me out when you could've been studying!"

Frank looked at the sunlight dancing on the walls, at the freshly-painted cupboards and shelves he'd thoroughly enjoyed creating, and all of a sudden the words came in a rush. "Tom, I wanna quite college. I HATE college. I hate books and writing and reading and learning and exams. And I wanna quit Dawson's Garages. I HATE working at Dawson's Garages. I don't fix engines. I never did. I wash cars, sweep up, make the tea. I hate being cooped up in their office, doing their filing and taking their messages and running out for the blokes' sangers. I just wanna make things. And my music. That's all I need. That's all I'll ever need."

"Free electric band, huh?" Tom muttered.

Frank stared at him in amazement. He didn't think Tom would even have heard of the song, with his preference for country and western and Johnny Cash. Even the Bruce Springsteen music was Pippa's.

Oddly enough, it had been one of the repertoire of songs he and his Dad had gone through that day in the bathroom. He could almost hear Frankie Morgan and his younger self singing it again:

_My parents and my lecturers could never understand  
why I gave it up for music and the free electric band  
well, they used to sit and speculate upon their son's career  
a lawyer or a doctor or a civil engineer  
just give me bread and water, put a guitar in my hand  
'cos all I need is music and the free electric band_

"Back in my younger days, me and my mates, we formed a band too though we didn't last long," Tom explained. "Frank, mate, all Pip and me want for our kids is that they're happy. Maybe some time in the future you'll want to go to college, maybe not. Maybe some time in the future you won't mind taking a job you hate just to get some cash, maybe not. You're not a kid anymore. You're old enough to make your own decisions. Go for the dream of the rock band if it's what you want."

"You wouldn't mind?" Frank looked at him hopefully.

Tom smiled wryly, lost in memories of his days at Uni. "We thought our band was gonna shake the world. We didn't. But you've got something we never had - you've got talent. Real talent. Maybe you'll hack it. Who knows? All you can do is give it your best shot. And while you're waiting for that big break, if you're interested, I've got a vacancy here for a maintenance man to help out on the caravan site. Pay's not much, in fact it's lousy, but there's heaps of job satisfaction."

"I'll take it, boss!" Frank said at once, shaking Tom's hand.

To think, he never dreamed, when he'd been that scared little kid who sat under the table screaming, that ten years on he'd be standing here, talking about beer and girls and rock bands, seeking his foster father's advice!

And pretty soon Frank would have to make another major decision. Frankie Morgan was due to be released later that year and had asked Frank if he'd consider moving in with him when he eventually found a place. But Frank already knew the answer. His Dad would always be part of his life, but the Fletchers were his home.

-----  
"Hey!" Steven said, clicking off the mower. "Cool necklace!"

Sally smiled shyly as she plucked flour out of a wet tendril of fringe. Pippa had tenderly washed the flour off her face with a damp cloth, but Sally had somehow managed to add to it again while sampling Lizzie's delicious chocolate cake.

Milko was back and the little girl was happier than she could ever remember. She hadn't even needed to count from twenty backwards before she got up out of bed today like she usually did. And she had confided in Pippa about Carly's imaginary Milko and Pippa had promised to sort things out so Sally wasn't worried about Carly anymore either. But something else was worrying her.

"How's Milko?" Steven asked, wondering at her silence. Sally was a funny little kid.

Sally glanced at Milko for an answer.

"Fine," he said curtly, folding his arms and pointedly turning his back . He still didn't entirely trust Steven. Sally couldn't blame him. It hadn't been very nice to be told every single day, three or four times a day, that you didn't exist and even have a nasty song made up about you.

_Milko's dead  
he fell on his head  
now he can't make a sound  
cos he's deep in the ground_

"He's okay," she said, ignoring Milko's bad mood and sitting herself down under the spreading branches of the magnolia tree, on the bench that Tom and Frank had made for the caravanners last summer.

She rested her chin on Mrs Martha's head, pink blossom falling down on her hair and mixing itself in with the white patches of flour, and frowned, deep in thought. Gran had always said you should say what was on your mind. Well, there was flour and pink blossom on her forehead, which was where her mind was. But surely Steven didn't want to talk about self-raising flour and magnolia petals? And neither did Sally. It was perplexing.

"So talk about what you _want _to talk about," Milko advised, unable to resist not minding his own business.

"Okay," Sally nodded agreement. "Steven, we're mates now, aren't we?"

"'Course we are, Sal!" Steven was busy emptying grass cuttings into a container for later transferral to the compost bin.

"And mates talk."

"Sure they do." He looked up in concern. "What's up then, Sal?"

"You. I don't know why you're so sad."  
Steven laughed, stunned by her acute perception. "I'm okay, Sal. Just a bit worried about Lance, that's all. You know how nervous he gets just before he goes on stage."

"Honest? That's _all _you're worried about?"

"Honest," Steven lied, not batting an eyelid.

"He'll win," Sally said confidently.

"Yeh. I know." Steven had no doubt about it. The prize was a hundred dollars, which Lance had already agreed to donate to the Summer Bay Primary school fund. The big question was not who'd win, but who'd be runner-up. After all, the only competition in the Bay would have been Frank and Frank wasn't entering.

A smile of relief lit up Sally's face. "Well, as long as you're okay..."

"No worries, Sal. Swear."

Sally's smile grew broader. She'd been worrying about nothing! She ran off happily with Milko, glad that she didn't have to worry about Steven anymore either. She hadn't realised how many people the youngest in the family had to look after!

Steven sighed as he turned back to the mower. Jeez, he was good at acting! Maybe they should put him up for the next Logie award!

He was meant to have met Lance, who had no idea that Steven had been taking the guitar without asking Frank if he could, for a final rehearsal but he couldn't chance waltzing off with the guitar again and no way was Frank going to agree to him borrowing it. Frank was still furious. Blazing, in fact.

He'd told Steven to meet him later at the talent show and warned him he'd better show up or his life wouldn't be worth living.

"'Cos, guess what, Einstein? It's payback time..." Frank had promised grimly.

© _Free Electric Band (Albert Hammond)_


	24. Chapter 24

**chapter 24**

"So that's the condemned block? You ever get the local teens in there of an evening? You know, making out, doing drugs?"

Kathy Murray turned round, shocked at the implication. "No! Of course not!"

"You don't have any security round your school, sweetheart, and it happens." The representative from Sydney-based newspaper, _Daily Review_, Stella Nolan commented dryly.

"Not here it doesn't." Kathy was almost breathless with fury.

"So they're all Stepford teens in Summer Bay?" Stella's gravelly smoker's voice was coated in sarcasm.

Kathy's Murray's eyes flashed angrily. "No. Just nice, normal kids."

"Trust me, Katy. Teens who don't get up to that kind of stuff _ain't_ normal kids."

"Kathy." Kathy corrected, gritting her teeth.

The journalist's visit wasn't going well. In fact, it was going downright badly. Stella Nolan had barely glanced at the flower garden that Kathy Murray, the reception class children and press-ganged "volunteers" had put so much effort and love into. Although she _was_ very interested in Summer Bay Primary's gym and drama block. For all the wrong reasons.

"Yeh, yeh. Kathy, Katy, whatever. Apologies." Stella Nolan lit a cigarette from the stub of the previous one and blew out a plume of blue smoke.

Kathy's dreams of a sympathetic public launching a fund-raising campaign after reading the _Daily Review's_ heartwarming story ebbed away. Stella obviously had no intention of bringing lumps to throats or twangs to hearts by writing of how the kids had no choice on bad-weather days, but to sit inside stuffy classrooms and watch the rain lash the windows, because the indoor gym and drama block was too dangerous to be used and there was no cash in the coffers to build a new block. Or of how the Summer Bay residents had rallied round to create their very own talent show to raise what little money they could.

But all wasn't lost. She glanced at her watch. Maybe Stella would find something nice to write about this afternoon's talent show.

"Am I boring you?"

Kathy flushed. "Sorry. I said I'd help out with the talent show ticket sales if it got busy. And my boyfriend's one of the first acts so I wanted to get there extra early."

Stella rolled her eyes. Oh, for Christ's sake, it got better and better! Her bloody _boyfriend_ was in the talent show? Didn't the bloke have any kind of _life?_ Didn't _any_ of these people have _lives?_

God Almighty, she could think of far better things to do with her time than accompany a prissy school teacher, who looked barely old enough to be out of school herself, round a primary school in a small backwoods town, where the highlight of the day, for Crissakes, was a bloody talent show!

Take time off to have a bub because your relationship was on the rocks and you were two years off pushing forty so the biological clock was ticking and see where it got you with your career when you returned to work. Stella was still fuming at being sent out on a story that rookie journos, straight out of TAFE, could have cut their teeth on.

To add insult to injury, the bub hadn't cemented their crumbling relationship as they'd hoped but had had the opposite effect. She and Richard had split up soon after Dominic was born and, though he sent regular maintenance payments, he didn't want any part in the kid's life. Neither did Stella as it turned out. Thank God for the nanny agency.

Hannah and Dominic adored each other from the first and the arrangement worked like a charm. Whenever Stella felt in need of some amusement, she took Dominic out and showed him off. The little boy cut a cute figure in his designer gear, designer stroller and old-fashioned thick, curly hair and gained many an admirer on their way to visit friends and relatives or out shopping. But it was a relief that Hannah was always in the background to do the distasteful stuff like change nappies and take him off her hands if he started whingeing or being sick. Stella often thought that Dominic was one very lucky kid. After all, he had everything he needed, no expense spared, and a trust account that would make him a very rich boy indeed when he reached eighteen.

The Kathy Murrays of the world, who imagined kids were even vaguely interesting, were beyond her comprehension. But those flashes of anger that Julie Andrews here was displaying, now _they_ were promising. Wind her up, get her riled. With any luck, she'd spit the dummy, shoot her mouth off about everything that was wrong with this town and Stella would have a lovely controversial story to be splashed over the pages, even if she did have to sit through an incredibly boring small town talent show to get it.

And then suddenly things looked up a thousandfold for Stella _"no punches pulled; tells it how it is"_ Nolan.

"Hi, Kath!"

From the school gates, Jenny Murray waved and flicked her long red hair back like a shawl in a mannerism that alerted Kathy at once. Jenny always flicked her hair back that way when something was bothering her.

"Jen!" Kathy waved back. "This is Stella Nolan, who's covering the Summer Bay story like I told you. Stella, my sister, Jenny."

"Hey." Jenny grinned warmly, but her mind was someplace else.

Stella nodded briefly, uninterested. Obviously another Stepford clone, even if the two sisters did look unalike.

"I thought you were meeting Frank at the Diner?" Kathy slipped her arm into her younger sister's.

"Yeh. I am. Just thought I'd come along and warn you - the queue for ticket sales is right round the Town Hall!"

"Wow! Sounds like I'm needed!" Kathy smiled at the cynical newspaperwoman, fervently hoping that Stella was at least impressed enough to write about the Summer Bay community spirit.

"Yeh, well, who'd miss it? Everybody's there, kids, teenagers, wrinklies, even the lamppost look-a-likes who have that posh gift shop in Yabbie Creek. Oh, and the dysfunctional Fletcher family will all be coming...Carly the ex-alcoholic, Sally and her imaginary friend Milko, Lynn the religious nut, Steven and his genius IQ, Frank and his rock star temper..."

Jenny bit her lip, little realising how much weight her humorous remark had just carried. Like Tom Fletcher, humour was her way of dealing with things that worried her and she was _very_ worried about Frank's hot temper right now. He had promised Jenny he wouldn't bash Steven and she had said she'd finish with him if he ruined the show that Kathy had poured her heart and soul into, but...

"It'll be okay, Jen," Kathy said reassuringly, squeezing her arm.

"Sure it will!" Stella predicted brightly, surprising Kathy with her sudden compassion.

Oh, better than okay, Stella thought, congratulating herself. Forget the plans to rile the naive schoolma'am, looked like she was about to get her sensational story after all without even trying. She couldn't wait to meet the dysfunctional Fletcher family!

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"No sign of him." Tom said. "We'll have to go."

"But we can't!" Sally protested.

"Sorry, sweetie," Pippa said, ruffling Sally's hair. "We'll miss the show and we might even miss Lance singing too if we don't leave right now. Steven will find the note we've left him."

Sally sighed and shoved up to make room for Milko, who'd been helping Tom look, and who shrugged and shook his head at Sally as he got inside the car.

Frank and Carly had gone on ahead to meet Zammo and Jenny at the Diner. Tom, Pippa, Sally, Lynn and old Lizzie were all ready, carefully carrying the cakes they'd baked. Tom and Milko had looked everywhere and asked around the caravan park but it was no use.

With a swiftness that Milko must have envied, Steven had disappeared into thin air.

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Janice Drummond, music teacher at Summer Bay Primary, clicked her tongue impatiently. Janice played piano whenever and wherever it was required and the Summer Bay talent show was no exception.

"Mr Smart, if Guitar can't be bothered turning up for his show, then I can't be bothered with Guitar. _(Janice had a habit of demoting the people behind the musical instrument in favour of the musical instrument itself)_ Piano will be perfectly adequate on her own."

Lance sighed, coughed in a desperate attempt to clear his dry throat, and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. He suffered badly from stage fright and Steven's unexplained absence wasn't helping matters. The audience were filing in now, the contest was due to start in less than half an hour and still no sign of Steven, who was meant to be providing guitar accompaniment to Lance's singing and Janice's piano.

But Janice Drummond, busy setting up music sheets ready for the first act, an over-ambitious troupe of gymnasts, refused to listen to Lance's pleas that they postpone his performance.

_"Coo-eeee! Lanceeeee!" _A shrill voice cut the air like a knife, making Janice shudder. Her ears were finely tuned to even the slightest hint of off-key and sensitive to any disharmony of tone.

Lance grinned and raised a hand in greeting as his mother, in her best purple hat, purple coat and purple dress, teamed with every item of jewellery she could find, entered the hall with her great friend Madge Wilkins and espied him on stage. As Madge Wilkins had been the one who phoned both the ambulance and Colleen's husband when Colleen had gone into early labour with Lance some twenty years ago and, as the friends saw each other and each other's grown-up children quite regularly, there was no need for Colleen to draw her attention to him now, but Colleen and Madge apparently thought otherwise.

"There he is, Madge! That's my Lancey!"

Madge, in her own best outfit of red-and-white horizontal-striped twin-set and red pillarbox hat with bright red lipstick to match her attire, held up the line behind her while she put on her glasses to stare.

Behind them, Stella Nolan was furious to be jolted to a sudden halt. She grimaced and shielded her eyes in a reflex action as she saw the two garishly-dressed, barrel-shaped, women. With its grotesque inhabitants and small town mentality (Kathy had told her _proudly_ that there was always tea, coffee, soft drinks, cakes and snacks but strictly _never_ any alcohol served at the Town Hall bar) she was going to have a wonderful time caricaturing the Summer Bay residents.

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"You look as fed up as I am," Steven remarked.

The scruffy ginger cat, who was basking on the rock in the sun, stretched and swished the tip of his tail in vague acknowledgement.

"Yaaaw," he responded lazily, without troubling to open his eyes.

"See, Frank wants payback for me taking the guitar and he's got one hell of a temper."

"Yeee-_owww!" _The cat replied, as if it knew of Frank's violent temper and sympathised.

Steven turned his attention away from the turquoise sea and scudding clouds and back towards his companion. He had meant to make his way to his private beach, to sit in the cave and think things through, but it wouldn't have been the same without the guitar to play the music that could soothe his troubled heart and, coming across the ginger cat, he had stopped where he was instead, sensing from the creature an overwhelming loneliness that matched his own.

"So...what's the deal with cutting school then, Tobs?"

After all the times he'd teased Sally, Steven couldn't believe he was sitting here having a conversation with a _cat! _Yet it was strangely relaxing. Maybe little Sal had a point about Milko.

Of course, the cat himself had been instantly recognisable. No other in Summer Bay looked half as war-weary as old Toby, with his horrific battle scars and one ear torn off by the young upstart tabby who took over his territory in a notorious long-ago fight that had led to Toby's desperate life on the run till Billy Jackson, janitor of Summer Bay Primary, took him in.

Toby apparently chose not to answer awkward questions. He opened one green-yellow eye to look at Steven, then closed it again as though even the effort of opening his eye had proved too great.

And that was when Steven sat bolt upright in sudden realisation.

The beach was so close to Summer Bay Primary that it was almost on its doorstep, but Toby was too old and weak now to wander far from the school grounds. It would have required a valiant effort for him to make it.

"Hey, mate, what you doing out here anyway?" Steven asked gently. "You crook or somethin'?"

He had his answer soon enough. The cat screeched in pain the moment Steven touched his badly broken hind leg.

Toby had curled up on the rock to die.

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"Ya shoulda tracked it down and killed it," Scott said. "What was the point of chasin' it from the school if ya didn't finish the job? A crackshot should always finish the job."

"But it was Toby," Kane protested.

"So what, drongo? You chickenin' out on me on somethin'?"

Kane looked down at their collection of large pebbles and small rocks, carefully chosen for their weight, sharpness and potential to inflict maximum damage and wiped a tear from his eye with a grubby fist.

"No," he gulped.

"Good. 'Cos this is the way it is and this is the way it's gotta be."

Kane nodded miserably. He wished he could stop being sooky over stuff. Fred and Deefa were never coming back. Milko had decided to go back to the freak. It was just him and Scotty to take on the world. A rough, tough world of Dad's bashings and Ma's fruitcakiness. A world where you got hurt over and over and over again. Where hurting anything or anyone else was the only thing that took the pain away from yourself.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steven yelled round for the janitor in vain. Like everybody else, Billy Jackson had gone to watch the talent show.

"No one around," Steven told the seriously ill cat nestled in his arms, wondering what to do now. He knew Billy Jackson would want to be with his beloved cat if he was hurt but the nearest vet was based in Settler Point, quite some way away, and in the opposite direction to Summer Bay Town Hall.

And the school itself was eerily empty and silent. As if no one had set foot inside the building for many years and never would call again. As if ghosts had left behind their echoes and shadows and nothing more.

But all that day had not been still.

Breezes had chased the clouds, stirred the blades of grass and caused the flowers in the children's flower garden to bob their heads like old-fashioned villagers in a busy village market dancing and curtseying in old-fashioned greeting to their neighbours.

One such breeze uncovered Stella Nolan's carelessly discarded smouldering cigarette and rolled it out on to the path.

Mistaking it for food, a sharp-eyed bird had swooped and carried it high into the air. Discovering its error, dropped it out of its beak and down on to the fragile wooden roof that housed the small library annex (the school had intended to, but never found the money to replace the wood) where a stray wind, wilder than the rest, gathering strength from the sea and seeking to make mischief, caught a sudden spark.

Grey smoke curled ominously into the air. A familiar orange glow shot into life with a gleeful crackling.  
_"Steven, the fire..." _

The fire that had murdered his Mum and Dad and swallowed everything in its path...

Frozen with terror, Steven stood and watched...

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **For anyone's who's never seen any of the movies (_Stepford Wives; Stepford Husbands and - never seen the last one so not sure about the title - Stepford Children_) Stepford was a supposedly "perfect" town. I think the people were robots, but it was never really made clear.


	25. Chapter 25

**chapter 25**

Wavering lines of blue-grey smoke like a wispy sea blur images into a strange underwater world. A car door slams somewhere in a vague distance. Clattering footsteps. Voices shouting in urgency. Foreign voices.

_"¡Necesitamos agua¿Dónde podemos encontrar nosotros agua¡Rápidamente¡Debemos apurar!"_

His quick brain soaks in languages as easily as it soaks in everything else and he knows they are talking about water to put out the fire, emphasising the urgency of the situation. But his voice has lost itself somewhere in this strange dream. Mistaking his silence for an inability to understand, they try desperately to communicate. How are they to know he _can't_ move? How can they know of his fear? He may only be a boy of fourteen, but he is native to this country and he may be familiar with the layout of the school.

The woman clutches his arm. She is startlingly pretty. Beautiful glossy black hair falls in waves and frames a heart-shaped, olive-skinned face.

_"Niños?" _She pleads, flecks of gold in her large brown eyes where tears are spilling. "Pliss - where are the leetle ones?"

He finds his voice at last although it's croaky and not his own.

"Empty," he explains, shaking his head to emphasise the meaning. _"El edificio es vacío."_

She smiles through the rain of tears and, gently, the man pulls her away, talking in rapid fire Spanish, his wedding ring flashing momentarily in the sun as he places a hand on her stomach.

She hugs her husband and begs him in her native tongue to be careful. Unlike his wife, his own grasp of English is poor, but his liquid brown eyes speak a thousand words, filled as they are with anxiety and love for her. His skin too is dark, his hair too black as night and given to curls but smaller and tighter, unlike her own flowing locks.

He has about him an air of strong, quiet determination and his tender kiss of her tear-stained cheek and brushing away of her tears quickly reassures. She says something about _el gato _and Steven surrenders the cat in his arms.

_"¡Vayamos!" _He yells to the man. "Let's go!"

Never would he have thought he'd ever go willingly towards fire, but it's alright, it's alright, this must be a dream, and, as in a dream, memories, long forgotten in waking, rise and dance again. He recalls a moment when passing by the school: _sunlight casting patterns through newly-painted railings, a brief glimpse of an open shed and janitor Billy Jackson, watering the grass around the flower garden, while a handful of kids run up to tease, then to scatter, screaming in delighted fear when a Billy amusedly pretends to turn the jet of water their way._

Shoulders bruised against the locked shed door, the long hosepipe attached to the stand-pipe his memory located, unfurling the hose, heart pounding in terror, mouth dry with fear, intense heat burning on his face, and then they are running, he and this stranger, towards the angry flames...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stella Nolan couldn't stand the urgent whispering or the small hands on the back of her allocated - and extremely uncomfortable - town hall seat any longer.

"What ARE you doing, child?" She demanded, laying down the notepad she'd been scribbling into and turning around.

Sally buried her face in Mrs Martha's yellow hair. "I'm v-very s-sorry. I've T-TOLD Milko n-n-not to keep r-running up and d-d-down b-b-but he w-w-won't listen," she mumbled almost inaudibly.

"And who or what, pray, is Milko, you silly little girl?" Stella shuddered inwardly and surreptitiously raised her feet off the floor, casting wary glances downwards, suspecting a pet mouse or pet rat.

It wasn't what someone normally took with them to a talent show but nothing would have surprised her about this insane little town where anything could happen and often did.

Such as the unofficial "interval" that had arrived immediately after the second act when the third act, the boyfriend, after falling over his untied shoelace the moment he got on stage, loosened his collar, blushed beetroot red and declared he couldn't possibly go through with it. Instead of booing like a normal audience, the Summer Bay audience had heaved a collective sigh of disappointment, mixed with claps and shouts of encouragement for _"Lancey"_ - all to no avail, as the boyfriend had covered his face with his hands in embarrassment and fled off stage.

After hurried conversations with mysterious people hidden behind the wings, the wild-haired woman on piano established that the next three acts, respectively a ventriloquist, a comedian and a three-piece band, weren't quite ready yet either, and, anyway, she announced, her arthritis was playing up so she needed her tablets and a break from the foot pedals. Then the principal of Summer Bay High, who apparently went by the peculiar name of Flathead and who seemed to carry some clout, climbed up on stage, announced they should all "take five" and just about everybody, including the madwoman from piano, went off without a murmur of protest for ice creams, soft drinks and toilets.

Now Flathead, Julie Andrews and the two barrel-shaped, rainbow-lorikeet-dressed ladies were gathered at the foot of the stage, trying to persuade the boyfriend to go through with the singing and the boyfriend was protesting he couldn't, while people calmly streamed past them as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.

"M-Milko's my...my friend," Sally stammered, close to tears, to Stella's impatience. She hated kids who blubbered, and was just about to say so when the two teenage girls, who were also in the row behind, each put a protective arm around the annoying little brat and glared at Stella.

"Hey, Sal! You being given a hard time here?" The eldest said in a dangerous voice.

Stella didn't scare easily (rodents excepted) but even she withered under the harsh gaze. Having been deserted for the unexpected break, the seats in the whole of her own row and that of behind were empty except for herself, the bratty kid and the self-appointed bodyguards.

Fortunately, at that precise moment, the arrival of an extremely tall, good-looking youth with floppy fair hair and an easy smile broke the tension.

"Best get these before they melt," he advised, four ice-creams dripping pools of liquid down through his fingers. "Pip, Tom and Lizzie said to tell you they wouldn't be long, they've gone to see how the cakes are selling and Jenny's still trying to talk Frank..." Zammo suddenly realised he'd interrupted something. "What's going on?" He asked.

"I...I j-j-just want-wanted to go see L-Lance and...and M-Milko w-won't stop r-running up and d-d-down," Sally said, growing more and more alarmed by the looming confrontation she was the cause of, and wondering how Milko dared pull faces behind the woman's back.

"You have a problem with my kid sister's invisible friend running up and down, lady?" Carly took an ice-cream from Zammo, bit into the wafer and delivered the question like a Mafia threat.

Invisible friend! Like whirring machinery starting up after being laid idle for the weekend, things started to click into place in Stella's mind.

Without even realising she had, thanks to Stella's subtle questioning, Julie Andrews had divulged more information about the dysfunctional Fletcher family that the _Daily Review's _star correspondent was looking forward to lampooning to the point of narrowly-avoiding-libel-damages, but, thanks to soaring ticket sales and the boyfriend's stage fright, she hadn't yet had time to actually point them out to Stella. And here they were, sitting behind her all along! Stella wanted her controversial story and to get it she needed this lot onside.

"Ah! The Fletcher family!" She said in conciliatory tones, smiling down at the youngest Fletcher with large, polished teeth that put Carly in mind of a shark. "You must be little Sally...?"

"So what if she is?" Carly took another mouthful of ice-cream and pulled Sally closer as if she thought Stella might bite her little sister any minute.

"My name's Stella Nolan," Stella said sweetly and proffered her hand, which she withdrew when Carly ignored it. "I'm a reporter for the _Daily Review_. Kathy Murray - lovely person! - invited me to write about the talent show. And I was hoping to write about Tom and Pippa too - you know, as a nice surprise for them to read in the papers tomorrow. Kathy has told me all about what great foster parents they've been to you all."

"Oh, yes! They are!" Lynn said trustingly. "What do you want to know?"

Carly, deciding she'd over-reacted, shrugged and backed off, grinning at herself, and Zammo snaked his arm round her shoulders and grinned back at her, glad everything had been sorted so amicably.

Lance and Miss Murray were looking back towards the stage and Milko, his curiosity getting the better of him, had finally decided to sit down quietly and listen. Sally smiled shyly, ready to answer any questions about Milko if asked.

It was easier than taking candy from a baby, Stella thought gloatingly, as she retrieved her pen.

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Coughing and laughing, they congratulated each other.

The fire hadn't been given a chance to take hold. All that remained of its angry onslaught was the blackened library annex, a few burnt books and the acrid smell of smoke.

Attention turned back to Toby and quickly Steven told of the dilemma, of the Town Hall, where the cat's owner Billy Jackson was at that moment, being in the opposite direction to the vet's in Settler Point. And somehow, in the confusion, it never occurred to anyone it might have made more sense to collect Billy first.

The car engine faded into the distance and Steven stood alone once more.

It was only now, now that he thought of the flames, that he began to shake uncontrollably. For some reason, despite the smoke, the fire alarm still hadn't activated and a strange silence, broken only by the crash of the nearby sea to the shore and the cry of the gulls, ensued. And yet it was as though nothing had happened. As though the strangers had never existed outside his imagination.

And yet they knew Sally! He frowned up at the sky where puffy white clouds sailed unhurriedly past.

_"We come here for Sally. Sally Keating," the woman had explained their reason for being at Summer Bay Primary before they climbed back in the car. _

Sally! What the hell did _Sally_ have to do with anything? None of the day made any sense. Nothing did.

Steven sighed. His original plan had been to skip the talent show and dodge Frank. But someone had to break the news about Toby to Billy. And there was no one else.

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_When you're weary, feeling small  
When tears are in your eyes,  
I will dry them all  
I'm on your side  
When times get rough..._

Satisfied that the home-baked cakes were selling "like cold cakes" as Tom put it, earning himself a dig in the ribs for his terrible joke, Pippa, Lizzie and Tom had barely had time to settle back into their seats and for a brief introduction to Stella, before Lance launched into his song.

_And friends just can't be found  
Like a bridge over troubled water  
I will lay me down.  
Like a bridge over troubled water  
I will lay me down..._

Sally knew it must be a love song because Lance was singing it specially to Miss Murray, who was smiling and weeping and blowing her nose. But somehow the words seemed to be about Pippa and the terrible sea too...

She stood up to lean against Pippa's lap and Pippa smiled as she put her arm round Sally's waist and smoothed back that inevitable stray tendril of hair. Tom whispered something in Pippa's ear. This was one of their special songs.

_When you're down and out  
when you're on the street  
when evening falls so hard  
I will comfort you  
I'll take your part  
When darkness comes  
And pain is all around..._

Stella Nolan, popped a fresh piece of gum into her mouth. (The backwoods town didn't allow smoking in its precious town hall.) She had to admit it. The boyfriend was good. Bloody good.

His singing echoed all around the ancient building, up to the wooden rafters surrounded by the peculiar narrow high windows and down against the strange, sloping floors, sending shivers down everyone's spine.

Concerned about Janice Drummond, Lance had insisted that she gave herself a little extra rest from the arthritis bout but the strength of his voice easily carried the beautiful harmony without musical accompaniment. He met Kathy Murray's eyes as he reached the end of the song and, whistling and cheering, the audience rose as one to its feet. Thunderous applause rattled non-stop like pebbles of hailstone hitting a million windows. It was a foregone conclusion that he would win.

Nobody could live up to such perfection. And nobody did. The acts that followed varied in being good, fairly good and absolutely dire.

If only the kid with the dark Italian good looks, heavy scowl and delusions of being a rock star could have gone on stage, Stella thought, intrigued by a scene that had lately begun playing out at the arched doors of the entrance, certain this was Frank, one of the two missing members of the Fletcher family.

Rock star temper, she recalled the sister had said, and he certainly looked like he wouldn't hesitate to smash up drums, stage, even a whole theatre, given half a chance.  
Stella hadn't been a journo for years without getting a hunch for a story. The rock star wannabe was gunning for somebody and Julie Andrews' sister was having no luck in trying to talk him out of it.

She only half watched the final act, a tone-deaf singer who, after admitting he'd only entered to win a bet, consistently sang off-key, taking the audience's laughter in his stride. Though she couldn't hear what was being said, the little scene playing out at the door was far more interesting.

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"You don't understand, Jen. Einstein's good at everything. Music's all I ever had."

"And that's a good enough excuse for ruining all Kath's hard work?"

Frank bit his lip and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm not gonna ruin it, Jen," he said stubbornly. "I told you what'll happen and we agreed it'd just teach Steven a lesson. You know how big-headed he is. Reckons he's better than the rest of us. This'll bring him back down to earth with a bump."

Jenny sighed. "Yeh, well, I had second thoughts. I don't trust that journo somehow. Frank, maybe we should think about this..."

But suddenly it was too late to think about anything.

Steven burst through the doors and charged straight into his foster brother, who grinned and slammed the guitar and its case against him so fiercely that he was winded for several moments.

"Been waiting for you, mate. See, I got a great payback lined up. You get to play guitar. On stage. And you even get to play your very own tune."

"Frank, listen..." Steven managed to catch his breath at last.

But Frank Morgan was in no mood for listening and he was too strong for Steven to pull free from his grip.

Donald Fisher smiled when he saw Frank with his arm round his brother's shoulders bearing down towards the stage. Frank had already given him details and explained that Steven was keen to enter but apparently, like Lance, he suffered from stage fright, which was why he hadn't turned up earlier. He was delighted to see Frank must have persuaded him after all.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a late last entry. Steven Matheson playing a solo guitar composition written by himself." Flathead sounded and looked suitably impressed.

Ripples of polite applause greeted the lone figure propelled by Frank onto centre stage. And Steven froze. He was about to lose street cred with every single one of his mates and every single chick in the school.  
At first he'd thrown himself into life at Summer Bay High to try and forget the guilt over his parents' deaths. But more recently he'd deserted everyone, knocking back invitations to parties and not turning up for footie games that they went on to lose without their star player. Easier to be a geek, staring at computer screens and complicated mathematical theories that didn't care when memories made tears sting your eyes. It wouldn't take much to put the final nail in the coffin.

None of his mates from his life before Summer Bay would have recognised Stevo Matheson, back then someone they knew as the hottest, most popular guy in the school.

His face, hair and clothes were still blackened by smoke that resembled simple unwashed-away dirt and there was a rip in the sleeve of his T-shirt from when he and the stranger had dragged the heavy hosepipe out of the shed. Still shaken by the fire, he strummed nervously on the guitar and the strings sounded tunelessly back like an elastic band twanged against teeth.

Convinced it had to be a joke like the previous act, someone stifled a laugh. It reached a stream that flowed down to the river. The first small giggle was followed by a giggle/cough and then an outright guffaw. And the music, an idle little tune that Frank insisted he played, would kill his reputation forever. This was it. The death knell had sounded.

Steven Matheson took a deep breath, squinted into the spotlight and prepared to die.

_Bridge Over Troubled Water © Paul Simon_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **I took the Spanish/English translations from a free translation website, hope they made sense!


	26. Chapter 26

**chapter 26**

Nothing to lose. They were already laughing. Who cared anymore? But there was still Toby. The spotlight blurred Steven's vision through a mist of tears. Like sun in his eyes.

"First off, I got an important announcement. If anyone knows where janitor Billy Jackson is, he's gotta get to the vet's in Settler Point immediately. Toby's seriously ill."

He never saw Billy, idly leaning against a wall to take a well earned break after helping shift some scenery, turn deathly white and drop the plastic beaker of warm coffee. Never saw the so many worried expressions in the audience (_everyone_ in Summer Bay knew Toby, Summer Bay Primary's adopted cat) or Penny Bryant, the principal of the primary school, impeccably dressed as always, today in neat trousersuit and matching chiffon neckscarf, leap from her seat, not caring that her carefully cultivated image of mystique and control was shattered when she dropped her car keys, losing an ear-ring and ruining her new hairstyle as she retrieved it from under the seat, in her haste to help Billy out.

He saw something else.

_He saw the golden sun of yesterday and the neat little house with its pristine white front door and brass-plated number 27, the corner of the seven splashed with a careless blob of white paint; his father mowing the lawn and his mother pruning the roses._

He never heard, as he began playing the tune that had haunted him ever since his parents' deaths, a silence descending as the audience's laughter gave way to tears and smiles. All that he heard were long ago voices carried on the breeze...

Sniffling back tears, Pippa curled Sally's hair round her fingers.

_And when she went down to breakfast next day there was Mrs Martha sitting in the chair. _

"Mrs Martha wasn't meant to be here till your birthday but she couldn't wait to meet you," Brenda said, folding up the knitting pattern and smiling at the rapt look on her small granddaughter's face.

Not a whisper breaks. Nothing but silent tears and silent smiles and strumming guitar. Gentler now. Memories of lullabies and being in the crook of a mother's arms.

_...And Sally had felt warm and safe. She didn't remember her mother but she remembered when she used to sit Sally on her lap and her breath would gently tickle her neck. Where Pippa's breath had tickled._

The guitar picks up speed. Faster, faster. There are mountains here. Mountains and rivers and freedom. There is room to grow.

_"Frank. Son, listen to what I say. That's loser talk and I don't want you being no loser."_

_Music was the only thing that calmed him. Somehow, though he never told them because he refused to speak unless he absolutely had to, they found out..._

Frank wiped his eyes where, to his embarrassment, the tears were in free fall. Jenny smiled and held him tight.

The music slows. A lonely sadness creeps into the air. Shadows cast from the narrow high windows where sunlight glances only briefly and hurries on by.

And somewhere in the world a child is crying.

_"Scotty! Scotty, you 'wake?" _

"Sshhh, ya -------drongo, he'll hear us!"

So they listen. Listen to their mother's beating, to their drunken father's footsteps on the stairs, trying not to breathe and draw his attention. Too late. He hears an involuntary cry of fear and storms into the room, lashing out, ignoring their terrified screams.

Guitar notes like teardrops fade into memories. First days at school, first days at Uni. Memories of home, of brothers and sisters, of Mums and Dads. Protecting.

_"Now listen to me," Brian Fletcher said. "This kind of thing is always going to happen unless you know how to defend yourself. Judo is the answer." _

"Judo!" Mrs Fletcher exclaimed as she dabbed poor Tom's bloodied nose. "I don't know, Brian. He's such a small, skinny thing."

"Exactly the reason the kid needs to learn judo," Tom's father said decidedly. "I've enrolled you for ten lessons at the community centre starting this Saturday."

Tom gulped. But he had to do something about the bullies. He couldn't go on and on getting bashed because he was an easy target. But judo...? As it happened, his father was right. Learning judo turned out to be the best thing he ever did...

Music. Universal language of love. Each listener in the audience wrapped in their own moment. Home. Reaching out when no one else does. Family. Your heart, my soul. Everything we are, everything we become.

_Mum had put her arm round her, kissed her hair and said, "My little angel Lynn! Always the quietest. How could I have missed my little angel?" _

What really amazed Lynn was that, as well as Pippa, Tom and her foster brothers and sisters, her own Mum and Dad had visited her in hospital! And not just Mum and Dad either, but two of her four sisters and three of her six brothers (the rest being too young)...

The music speeds again. Skimming chattering brooks, running across flower-strewn meadows and flying with the playful clouds. Chocolate flavoured candy, balloons and Xmas, fairytales and fairyfloss! Jokes and fun and hope! So much hope!

Sally clasped a hand over her mouth and sprang to her feet.

"Milko!" She gasped.

"What's he up to now, sweetie?" Pippa asked in amusement.

"He's dancing on the stage behind Steven," Sally said in an awed whisper. "Because he knows no one but me can see him."

"I can," Carly said loyally, affectionately tugging at Sally's hair, grinning at Pippa.

_"Carly, tell me where it says that family just give up on one another. Because I never read it anywhere." Pippa spoke to her as tenderly as though she were talking to little Sally. "Sweetheart, family is about having a home and a place where you belong."_

The blubbering kid was rocking her town hall seat again but somehow it wasn't annoying her anymore. In an odd kind of way, it was even strangely comforting.

Stella had deliberately blotted out the memory when the brat had innocently whispered to her all about Milko. It was just another story to fill up the papers, for readers to mock and laugh at this dysfunctional family living in its fluffy bunny town. After all, it was a cynical world. Dog eat dog, everyone out for what they could get. But, listening to the guitar music, the vague pulling at Stella Nolan's cold heart couldn't resist any longer and gave a mighty tug.

_"We're paying a fortune for your private school education. How can you expect to get a good career if your math grade isn't up to scratch?" _

"But my English paper..." Stella blinked back hot tears of disappointment.

She was eight years old, with braces on her large crooked teeth, curly, carrot-coloured hair and thick glasses. The exam papers hadn't been proper exams, just another of the many tests they were always having to take, but, all the teachers agreed, in the whole twenty year history of the exclusive private school, nobody had ever produced such a brilliant English paper ever before and Stella well deserved her mark of 98.

"That's all very well." Mummy sighed impatiently. "But, Stella, darling, Math is REALLY important. You don't want a dead-end job , do you?"

"YES!" Stella yelled defiantly. "Yes, yes, yes, I DO!"

Of course she didn't. She wanted to go to Uni and have a career and earn heaps of money like Mummy and Daddy said she should. But it wasn't fair! No matter how well she did in anything, they found fault.

She was ace at writing essays, for instance, but her parents said imagination didn't matter, what did matter was her grammar, spelling and punctuation. Sometimes the teacher would choose the best essay-writers to read their story out to the class and the other kids always loved Stella's more than anyone else's. It still didn't make them want to be friends - she had to march straight up to kids who were jumping rope or playing House and MAKE them let her join in. But it was how her parents told her she should be. Being nice wasn't how he'd got to be a top TV executive, Daddy said, and Mummy said her insurance firm would never been half as successful if she'd listened to sob stories and paid out.

Her parents looked at her now, disgusted by her outburst. "I suggest, young lady, you go to your room and practice from your math text book. I'll check how well you've done later," Daddy said sternly.

So Stella stomped angrily upstairs, knowing it meant her grounding would be extended, but what did she care? The other kids didn't like her much anyway and nobody bothered calling for her if she didn't turn out to play. Sometimes she wished she still believed in Bunny. See, Buddy...

Well, Buddy was an invisible teddy bear. He'd been exactly the same height as Stella because he was four, exactly the same age, with exactly the same birthday, and he always agreed with everything Stella said. Sometimes he liked to sit in Daddy's favourite arm-chair and two or three times Daddy nearly sat on him but Stella screamed a warning and Buddy managed to get up just in time. Mummy and Daddy said not to be stupid and Bunny didn't exist, but Stella knew better. Or thought she did then.

Now she was eight, she too knew Buddy didn't exist though she wished he still did. She'd been about five and not long started school when one day Buddy got mad because she had other kids to play with now so he walked out the door and she never saw him again.

Hadn't even thought about him in all these grown-up days, when she was considered a beauty by everyone she met, when she dyed her hair chestnut, wore contact lenses, and braces had long since straightened her crooked teeth. No longer the lonely little girl who invented Buddy to compensate for having parents who thought that all a child needed to be happy was money. Never, from them, the games and random hugs and silly moments that she saw other kids enjoying with their Mums and Dads and that little Stella yearned for; they were far too busy building successful careers and making their fortune.

And they'd taught their daughter to grow up as cold and emotionless with her own child as they'd been with herself. To her amazement, Stella suddenly found herself wiping her eyes and thinking about how much she was missing her small son.

The guitar solo spiralled to a climax, echoing in a ringing crescendo all around the hall. And into a void of silence.

Steven drew a deep breath and blinked at the spotlight, waking from the music and suddenly aware of where he was again. God, he must have been so bad that nobody was even going to bother clapping! He made to slide off stage as unobtrusively as possible when, like a sudden downpour, rapturous applause broke out, accompanied by loud cheers and whistles.

"And so ends our talent contest," a delighted Donald Fisher was shouting - or trying to shout - above the hubbub. "If everyone could put their votes in the envelopes found under the seats and, after the interval, they'll be counted up to find our winner."

As though in a dream, Steven made his way through the clapping, whistling, cheering crowd. Lance slapped him on the back, a broad smile on his good-natured face.

"Think you've walked this one, mate! Well done!" There was no jealousy that his crown had been stolen. Lance's words and actions were genuine as was Kathy Murray's smile.

"Ta." Steven said, feeling unusually shy.

Proudly, the Fletcher family gathered around him, Carly and Lynn leading the applause, Sally showing Mrs Martha and old Lizzie how Milko was dancing on the stage, Tom and Pippa's faces wreathed in smiles.

Frank grinned, his generous nature, as always, winning out over his temper. "Guess payback backfired on me big style, bro! Bloody hell, mate, that was _brilliant!" _

"Thanks," Steven mumbled warily. Praise from Frank was rare indeed.

"I didn't realise you were a musical maestro," Tom remarked."What else have you been keeping from us? Like how come you're so filthy? You been under an engine or something?"

"It don't matter." Steven shrugged off the memory of how the smoke from the fire had blackened his clothes and himself. "Something else does." He looked down, unable to live with his guilt any longer. "But...well...there _is_ something else. Tom, Pip, I...It wasn't Sal trashed the room. It was me."

"I know," Pippa said quietly.

"So do I." Sally had been standing there so quietly that nobody had even realised she was listening. "But we're mates now 'cos we swapped me being scared of the sea and you being scared of fire, didn't we? Steven, everybody likes you! Think you might have a girlfriend soon!" She added knowledgeably.

"Thanks, Sal!" Steven blushed, both at Sally's acute perception and at her generous dismissal of the mean trick he was thoroughly ashamed of now. As for the girls' attention...the Steven of old, the love 'em and leave 'em type, would have expected as much, taking it all in his conceited stride. This Steven was someone quieter. A nicer guy, he realised.

"Steven, why didn't you tell us you're still afraid of fire?" Pippa asked gently, squeezing his shoulder. "We're family. We care about you."

He bit his lip. "I didn't want to cry," he muttered huskily. It seemed such a stupid reason now, especially with emotional tears glistening in his eyes.

"Everybody has the right to cry, mate," Tom said.

"Yeh, I know that now. I used to think...to think I had to keep up the macho act." Steven looked round at his family. His family, who'd always be there for him, where he _belonged._

_"I'm Pippa," she says. She has kind eyes and a motherly smile._

_"Tom." His new foster father offers his hand, but he holds back, inhaling the canvas smell of the green rucksack clutched tightly to his chest. Since yesterday, all that he has left in the world. _

He draws another shuddering breath and glances apprehensively at his social worker as they hear voices outside. The other foster kids arriving home from school. Pippa lightly rests her hand on his shoulder as if she understands all the trembling hidden inside. Tom doesn't take offence at his slight, but pulls open the door.

"Okay, guys, this is Steven, your new brother. Let's see how fast we can make him feel at home."

Happy that everyone else was, little Sally was skipping round the aisles in her excitement, and unwittingly making people laugh. And, after all his earlier efforts to get rid of her, Steven realised he never wanted Sally to go. She was part of his family. His kid sister.

"Pip, there were these people. Spanish people. They were after taking Sal..."

But he got no further because Sally suddenly screamed...


	27. Chapter 27

**chapter 27**

**Final Chapter**

"Pip, these are the people who were looking for Sally," Steven whispered worriedly, his imagination going into over-drive as Sally flung her arms round the woman's waist. What if they were distant relatives of little Sal's, come to take her back to Spain with them? Surely there were laws against kid sisters being taken away from foster families? And, if there weren't, he'd fight tooth and nail to get things changed.

"I did not know that you remember me. You were so very leetle ," Isabel wiped a tear from her eye, touched by the enthusiastic greeting. "But we never forget you, Sally. Always we think of you. We look for you a long time to know you are happy."

"I am Rico. My wife is Isabel."

Not good with speaking English, the man spoke slowly and carefully as he offered his hand, which Tom shook warmly though, like the rest of the Fletcher family, Pippa was still staring in astonishment.

And then suddenly it came back to her. Of course! The detailed report at the Home, the same report that had sadly recorded

_"Sally has come to the conclusion that those she loves will inevitably leave her and so the wisest course of action is never to get close to anyone in the first place. To compensate, she has created for herself an imaginary friend "Milko", who can never be taken away from her and therefore always gives Sally the love, security and stability she so desperately craves"_

had also mentioned, briefly, that a Spanish couple had looked after her immediately after her parents' tragic accident although the report hadn't deemed them important enough to name. But from Sally's happy expression, it was clear the little girl thought the world of them. And anyone who made Sally happy was an immediate friend of Pippa's.

"These are...my Spanish friends!" Sally said breathlessly, turning to Pippa. "They looked after me when..."

Her face clouded over. All that she remembered of her parents was the terrible sea sweeping over the shore and taking them and their sailing boat away forever.

"Oh, Sal!" Pippa stooped down and held the little girl tightly to her.

"But I am perfectly alright now," said Sally primly, remembering that Gran always said it wasn't polite to complain or cry in company.

"Oh, yes, it is. Pippa and Tom told Steven it was okay to cry. Gran was very old-fashioned, Sally." Milko had stopped dancing and come down off the stage. He was wearing his best red hat and looking very important. "But you _are_ perfectly alright, you know, because you have a family now."

Sally nodded. Milko was very wise. "Because I have a family now," she added.

"I too will have family soon." Isabel's eyes shone as she smiled at Rico and touched her stomach. "It is to be a girl, Sally, and we name her for you."

Stella, listening to everything from the next row, was hardly surprised that there seemed to be hugs, kisses and squeals of delight all round. She dabbed her eyes again. Drat that guitar music. What _had_ it done to her? Even though it wasn't playing right now she could still hear it in her mind and kept thinking how much she missed her small son Dominic. Wrapped up in her career, she hardly ever saw him. Well, she was going to change things. He wouldn't grow up with cold, distant parents as she had done. If Summer Bay had taught her anything, it had taught her that people mattered far more than money.

She caught her breath suddenly. There was so much she could write about this little town, especially about how caring foster parents could turn around the lives of children who came to them damaged by early experiences. Would her editor agree to a four-page spread? She even knew how she would begin it. With a poem she had read long, long ago, but dismissed then as a head-in-the-clouds-perfect-world-that-didn't-exist-dream:

_If children live with criticism,  
they learn to condemn  
If children live with hostility,  
they learn to fight  
If children live with ridicule,  
they learn to feel shy  
If children live with shame,  
they learn to feel guilty  
If children live with encouragement,  
they learn confidence  
If children live with tolerance,  
they learn to be patient  
If children live with praise,  
they learn to appreciate  
If children live with acceptance,  
they learn to love  
If children live with approval,  
they learn to like themselves  
If children live with honesty,  
they learn truthfulness  
If children live with security,  
they learn to have faith in themselves and others  
If children live with friendliness,  
they learn the world is a nice place in which to live_

Janice Drummond, recovered now from her arthritis, played a few bars on piano to regain the crowd's attention. Donald Fisher tapped on the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, time now for our grand raffle! All proceeds will be going towards the Summer Bay Primary fund and, as you can see, we have a wonderful array of prizes..." He indicated the table with the chocolates, bottle of wine and cuddly toys that Stella had looked at scornfully on entering the town hall and now thought homely, "Including, specially baked by Pippa Fletcher, a delicious chocolate gateaux!"

"Remember the rock cakes!" Somebody yelled, disguising their voice with cupped hands.

Pippa's reputation for being a hopeless cook was well known and the audience burst into laughter as Pippa turned swiftly. Carly looked round in wide-eyed innocence. She must have thought the voice had come from a corner of the ceiling because she was staring at a certain spot in fascination.

Stella found herself laughing along with everyone else. How could she ever have thought the world so cold and cynical when family and friends were always filling it with touches of love and affectionate humour?

_"El GATO...?!!" _Rico turned to his wife in bewilderment, as though he half expected to see Toby offered as one of the raffle prizes.

Isabel laughed. "In this country I believe it is cake - _bizcocho_. Ah, yes. How can I forget? We have message to give - Toby, _el gato_, he is very well now."

She was interrupted by a sudden burst of applause. Kathy Murray, as organiser of the talent contest, and Lance Smart, as the previous talent contest's winner, had begun making the draws and the first winner, one half of the very snobbish lamp-post lookalike couple from the extremely expensive cards-and-china shop in Yabbie Creek Shopping Centre, collected her chosen prize of a life-size cuddly toy puppy.

Everybody watched in surprise as, still walking as though her head might drop off at any minute, she bypassed both her husband and exclusive front row seat and glided elegantly towards the Fletchers, where, finally, she deigned to look down and even smiled - although, it has to be said, it was a peculiar smile and obviously hadn't been practised for some years.

"For you. I saw the look of longing on your face earlier when you were playing down by the stage," she said to Sally, who accepted the cuddly puppy in delight and turned to Milko in astonishment, but Milko didn't know either and could only shrug.

Ticket after ticket was drawn and prize after prize collected. Nobody seemed to mind that, in many cases, they had spent far more on raffle tickets than on the prizes they won and the applause threatened to bring the roof down. The vote counting was finished just as the last raffle prize was collected and a little old lady happily walked off, smiling broadly, the proud owner of a second-hand heavy metal CD.

"And now on to the winners of our talent contest," Donald Fisher announced. "In third place, that very talented band, _The Gold Stars_..."

Lance, of course, was placed second. Everyone knew who first place would go to. Except Steven Matheson. He frowned, wondering who on earth could have toppled Lance. He'd voted for Lance himself and assumed everybody else had. Maybe there'd been a mix-up in the counting. After all, Lance was just being nice when he'd suggested Steven would take first prize. He watched curiously, unaware that his family exchanged secret smiles. They were well aware of who'd won even if Steven wasn't!

The thin, long-haired amateur drummer, a student from Summer Bay High and last year's runner-up, played the requested drum roll. As it ended, Donald Fisher opened his mouth to reveal the name of the winner when, as though on cue, the doors burst dramatically open and Penny Bryant and Billy Jackson made their grand entrance.

"Wait! Wait! We have an announcement!"

All heads turned as Penny Bryant raised an imperious hand and strode down the aisle, closely followed by Billy Jackson, who was cradling a smug-looking, battle-weary ginger cat. Toby's hind leg was in a splint but that didn't seem to perturb a superstar like Toby, who, from behind Billy's shoulder, surveyed his loyal subjects with catly disdain.

"I'm sure you'll all be pleased to know that Toby is going to make a full recovery," Penny spoke down into the microphone, making it give ear-splitting whistles. She paused, waiting for the cheers to die down before she resumed. "Which is a good thing, considering he has responsibilities now. My cat Fudge has just had a litter of six kittens. Toby is the father."

The crowd burst into laughter. Billy Jackson grinned. It had been easy to identify the culprit. Fudge was a lazy cat who rarely left the comfort of her large garden in Penny Bryant's house based in the school grounds and Toby had been the only cat to visit. What Fudge thought of her new status as a parent was anybody's guess, but Toby himself calmly licked his paw and washed his face.

For a few minutes the two principals were locked in serious, hushed conversation before Donald Fisher turned back to the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it seems we don't just have a winner tonight. We have a hero."

Donald Fisher went on to relate the story. Of how there'd been a fire at Summer Bay Primary caused by a carelessly discarded cigarette (Stella Nolan blushed). Of how the fire crew had discovered mice had chewed through electrical wiring, which meant the alarm hadn't sounded when the school was set ablaze, but, thankfully, two tourists and a local had been on hand to put out the fire before it did any serious damage. Of how at least one of the kittens would be needed to help Toby keep down the mice problem, but that the others would need good homes.

"Could we have one? Pippa, Tom, could we? Please?" Sally pleaded excitedly, cuddling both Mrs Martha and the toy puppy to her, remembering how long ago, when Gran and her neighbour Mrs Bellamy were both still alive, that Mrs Bellamy's two funny cats would run to her to mew all about their day.

"Heavens! I don't know. I never fostered a kitten before!" Pippa teased, her eyes laughing.

"Though, like you say every time the Home contacts us, there's always room for one more," Tom grinned.  
"Of course. It's the Fletcher family motto." Pippa agreed, nodding gravely as though Tom had only just talked her round. "Okay, Sal. We put our names down to foster one of the kittens."

"Yay!" Sally yelled excitedly.

"...And so the winner of our talent contest is STEVEN MATHESON!"

Like the rest of the family, Steven was busy laughing at Sally and he jumped sky high when he heard his name. Even when Flathead had been talking about the school fire, he still hadn't connected it with himself. Had he really done that? Helped put out a fire when fire was his greatest terror? It was strange what you could find the courage to do when you had family to back you.

"Knock 'em dead, bro!" Frank handed over his beloved guitar.

"We'd say break a leg, like you're supposed to, but Toby's already done that," Tom observed, unable to resist.

_"Pleee-ase_, Tom," Carly groaned. "No more bad jokes! I can't take it anymore!"

To deafening applause, Steven walked up on to the stage, still feeling as though today was all a dream and he was likely to wake up any minute.

"We need a title for your guitar solo," Donald Fisher was saying.

Steven shrugged. He hadn't thought about titles. He didn't know any. And then he looked at his family.

Pippa and Tom, his foster parents, always there for their kids, watching his moment of triumph as proudly as his own parents would have done.

Frank, his hot-tempered, generous-to-a-fault older brother, with his arm wrapped round girlfriend Jenny's waist.

Carly, his kind-hearted, beautiful, headstrong sister, sitting beside boyfriend Zammo, their hands locked in each other's.

Lynn, the dreamer, his gullible, good-natured younger sister, talking nineteen to the dozen to old Lizzie, no doubt about some harebrained plan.

Little Sally, making him and everyone around her laugh when she carefully sat Mrs Martha and the toy puppy on her lap so that she could raise both arms to give him an enthusiastic double thumbs-up. For a minute there, he was sure he even caught a glimpse of Milko!

And suddenly the title came to him.

"It's called _Going Home_," he answered.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_If children live with hostility,  
they learn to fight_

"Go!" Scott said.

Kane and he sprang out of their hiding place. Taken by surprise, the kid didn't stand a chance. He was bigger than Kane, smaller than Scotty, and he was to regret ever looking at Scott Phillips the wrong way in school a few days ago.

Scott pushed him against the wall and delivered a hefty kick on the shin that made him howl in pain. Kane curled his fist like he'd often seen Dad do, aimed a punch at the kid's chin and grinned up at Scotty as he drew blood. He was heaps less sooky these days and Scotty reckoned he'd be top dog of Summer Bay Primary by the time Scotty himself left for Summer Bay High.

In the distance, another world, cheering and applause could be heard from Summer Bay Town Hall.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_If children live with acceptance,  
they learn to love_

Sally stopped. Why was she hopping up and down, first on one foot and then on the other foot? It didn't have anything to do with superstition and counting and keeping away the terrible sea. She wasn't even sure she _was_ afraid of the terrible sea anymore.

She looked round at the people who had risen to their feet to clap Steven's guitar playing and to shout for yet another encore. How could she be afraid of the terrible sea with Pippa and Tom and Steven and Carly and Frank and Lynn and Isabel and Rico and Miss Murray and Lance and old Lizzie and all her other friends to protect her? But she still couldn't understand why she wanted to hop up and down.

"Well, it's because you're a kid," Milko explained. "And kids like to play. Anyway, I thought you were going to ask?"

"I am," Sally promised. "Pippa..."

"Yes, sweetie?"

And from Pippa's warm smile as she looked down and pushed back Sally's stray tendril of hair, the little girl somehow already knew what the answer would be before she asked.

"Pippa," she said, returning the warm smile. "Do you think it would it be okay if I called for a day or two longer?"

**THE END **

_This story is dedicated to the character of Sally Fletcher 1988-Present Day _

Children Learn What They Live © Dorothy Law Nolte


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